Doesn't it run in the family?
by MyriadL
Summary: Draco has a secret. Daddy finds out. He has a few of his own. A certain Potions professor decides he's had...not quite enough. SLASH Please read and review. CHAPTER 6 UP!
1. A midnight visit

He wiped the tears off the boy's face gently, watching him as he finally slept, not at all calm but certainly closer to peace than he had been in the last few hours. With a slight movement of his wand, Severus extinguished the light in his guest room, letting the sight of young Draco, his white hair rumpled over the pillow and his cheeks glistening evaporate into darkness. He slipped out and into the hallway, making sure he did so with as little noise as was possible and as he entered the living room, sank into a red leather arm chair, letting himself relax. The situation was complicated to say the least but not at all unpleasant in truth. He simply hadn't imagined it becoming serious this early.

He should have and yet he didn't. What was he thinking, that a fifteen year old boy could deal with what was happening and not let something slip to someone? Draco wasn't up to this, he wasn't old enough and certainly wasn't mature enough and yet when he saw the boy looking so...sweet one could have hardly refused him anything. That's what had gotten them where they now were, Draco running away from home to a man he called his lover (Snape imagined purely for the sound of it, since one would hardly have agreed on calling what they had a relationship).

It started about a month ago at Draco's initiative, or so Severus liked to think. The boy did everything he could have. He had spent weeks simply staring at him through classes, at one point actually starting to worry that the other students would figure it out (which he saw was a frail threat considering no one really noticed anything but Snape during that class, due to the amount of fear most of them shared for the Potions Teacher). Draco's pink lips would twist into the most seductive smiles he could muster, his lashes flutter and although at times he could appear quite the teenager, he always betrayed such overpowering lust that Severus couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to...He started staying after classes, asking for help when he didn't need it, finding any conceivable reason to be alone with him. As much as Severus would like to have said that it wasn't true, it didn't take him long. He had known right from the start and it had always been just a matter of time until he said yes, until he decided control over that young, blond body sounded too interesting to pass up.

It began in the dungeon one night, where Draco was purposely serving detention and continued throughout the following weeks. He had been the first to ever take the boy inside his arms, the first person whom Draco let explore his untouched skin, the first he had ever given himself to. He had been the first to ever claim him, the one that showed him what it was like to have someone inside you, feeling someone take control of your pain and your pleasure and giving that power over to them willingly. It had been exhilarating.

And then, Draco went home. It was Spring break and the boy left the school distraught, desperate that he wouldn't be seeing Snape for the next three weeks and frightened of returning home, a place that seemed to stay untouched his whole life, and entering it changed. He actually feared his father would be able to tell. He turned out not to be that wrong.

The first days passed as they always did, in peace and their classic holiday routine, only this time his father seemed to have more work to do and spent more time in his study. Draco soon began to feel safe there all over again, and his mind turned to thinking about his own life and that, however unexpectedly, he felt himself starting to...care for the object of his affection. He wondered if this was love, the constant need and inability to concentrate on anything, the ever present dissatisfaction that came when sex ended and they would part. It continued plaguing him for days until he decided that there was only one person he could discuss it with.

He waited for Lucius until he came from a meeting and asked him if they could talk. They settled in the living room of the second floor, the great glass windows staring into their back garden, the sun beginning to set. Draco started interrogating his father about love and sex, about what it had been like for him. Lucius answered his questions, albeit candidly and Draco was unaware of the growing uneasiness building up inside his father. He hadn't expected questions like this, not from his fifteen year old son. He had expected youthful wonder and although Draco tried to play it off as nothing more than that, Lucius could tell this was different. Children that age may have been running around and doing what they liked in the filthy muggle world (it suited them after all) but in their world that still wasn't and would not be a custom. They took care of their children and they grew up proper.

Draco started feeling so comfortable that for a moment, only a moment, he lost track of himself. A moment was all it took. Before he even registered his own words, Father's hand struck him along the cheek. It was only when his head flew back and his fingers reached the tender, now reddened skin that Draco realized what he said. He had called his lover a «he». Suddenly, the pain that throbbed all over his face didn't seem to matter anymore and he stared at his father in numb shock, saying nothing.

Lucius was experiencing something much the same, only bewilderment seemed to be rising through him.

"Father, I..."

"Silence!", he said through his teeth, watching as Draco's face turned a dark red. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

His breathing was hard, his eyes becoming almost completely black as they widened. Draco couldn't remember ever being this afraid of his father.

What happened later seemed a blur of anger and tears, his father's words hitting him worse than his blows ever had. Only the sound of Lucius' voice would have been enough to finish him. His father had never addressed him with such rage, one he never afforded his family but that wasn't even what mattered, he could have born that. What had hurt more than anything, making Draco feel more alone than he ever had was the apparent sound of poisonous disappointment thrown at him.

Of all the things Draco had ever been sure of in life, and there weren't many truths to believe in left for anyone these days, his father had been the most important. Lucius was one of the greatest living pure blood wizards left, the pride he carried himself – justified by his name and presence, the respect he exuded in people, almost frightening, Draco would have never aspired to anything but one day becoming a worthy heir to such a man. This time, Lucius Malfoy looked at his son and called him a disgrace. He eyed him with such disgust and left the room, unable to stomach looking at his son a second longer. That was the moment Draco started to cry, for he hadn't dared to do so in front of Lucius. His father had never been a man who could respect or accept any kind of weakness. Now, it seemed his father had found their lowest forms in him.

Draco couldn't bear being in their house a moment longer, couldn't fathom what would happen when Lucius told Narcissa. He couldn't stand looking at his father again and watching himself as the object of regret. In those moments, he honestly wished he could take it back. All the pleasure, all the happiness, all he felt for Snape if it meant taking what happened with his father back. If there was any way to erase it, he would have. But what's done is done and you have to live with yourself, no matter how badly it hurts to face things.

There seemed to be nothing else left to do and without saying anything to his parents, without packing anything (he couldn't find the energy inside himself to), he left on his broom to the house of the only person he could imagine understanding, the only person he could imagine still caring for him after he knew what he was like (since he himself had been part of it). He banged on Snape's door and when he opened it, he was greeted by the sight of an exhausted boy who had been crying all the way to his house. A dark purple bruise graced Draco's face and instantly, everything became clear to Severus.

He had been glad to hear that Lucius hadn't found out who the lover was, for that would have put them in far worse trouble, trouble Draco couldn't imagine for all he had just experienced with his father. He calmed the boy down as best as he could, given him something to drink and put him down to bed. Draco could do nothing else but sleep, feeling too weak for anything else. Snape could almost understand that. He hadn't expected any different from Lucius.

Slowly, Severus lit a cigarette as he relaxed in the chair. He had decided he would stop long ago, not so much for his health but for there being approximately one room where he could smoke at Hogwarts (that, naturally, being his own) so as to serve as a role model for the students. Still, situations like this demanded one.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the taste of the deadly thing, a small perfection he hadn't had in such a long while, when there was a knock on his door – so violent that it brought him out of his thoughts, almost frightening him.

"Who is it?", Snape asked as he got up, his wand ready in his hand. He didn't expect it to be anything more dangerous than a common thief in this neighborhood but there was no trouble in making sure.

"It's me, open up!"

He certainly hadn't been expecting this. He opened the door to find himself face to face with a distraught Lucius Malfoy who came in without a word, setting his broom down and taking his cape off. He went straight to Snape's liquor cabinet and poured himself some whisky, drowning most of the glass in a single gulp. He must be really upset, Snape thought to himself with a smirk, to not even wait for a house elf to do that for him.

Lucius looked at him, pouring some more and setting it down on the table, taking the cigarette out of the ashtray and pressing it to his lips. He sat down, looking from Snape to the table and then back again, his face so expressionless that it brought the smile right off of Severus' lips.

"Good evening to you, too, Lucius, very glad you could drop by unannounced.", he said as he sat down opposite him, "Please, do help yourself to the refreshments if you like, I've got some marvelous-"

"Draco's run away from home.", Lucius replied, breaking his sentence. He said nothing more but inhaled the smoke in once more. Snape went silent for a moment.

"I know."

"What?" , Lucius said, looking up, confused.

"He's here."

"What?!"

"He's here, Lucius."

"Why is he in your house?", Lucius replied angrily, nothing making sense anymore.

"Why do you think?", Severus snapped back, "His father called him an insult to the family name and practically disowned him. Who else do you think he could go to? "

"And you didn't think it was important to notify me of my son's whereabouts?!", Lucius said, rising from his chair. Now that Draco wasn't in danger anymore, the reality of the situation was returning to him.

"Oh do calm down, Lucius. He came here no less than an hour ago; he's only just went to sleep. I would have sent an owl to you instantly, had you not barged in like that."

He was no less angry but he did sit down, swallowing all of what was left in the glass.

"Where is he now?"

I"n the guest room, sleeping."

"Well, do you know why we fought? Why I-"

"Slapped his face blue? Yes, I know." , when he received another puzzled look he added, thinking fast, "He told me when he came."

"And?"

"And what?"

"He's...my son is...", Lucius swallowed the word and got up to pour himself some more alcohol. Unexpectedly, Snape felt anger building up inside himself though he was determined not to show it. After all this time, he couldn't even...

"I know what your son is, not that I understand why you're so upset."

"How can you not?!" , Lucius said, turning to Snape so fast that he almost spilled the liquor.

"Well, it's not like you can't...relate. Like father like son, isn't it?"

"Yes but I knew where to put the limit!" , Lucius replied furiously.

"Experience does do that to a man."

"Severus, please! Take this seriously!"

"When do I not?"

"He's my only son."

"I know."

"He's the Malfoy heir. He can't..."

"What? You were once in the same position and look how you turned out. One can hardly tell."

"Oh come off it, Severus, I stopped when I had to."

"And what tells you Draco can't do the same? Did you even ask him?", Severus replied, raising an eyebrow while looking at him,

Lucius waved his head angrily and Severus could almost see a tingle of regret on that perfect face. Lucius was beside himself, hair still tousled, white locks soaring around his face, tossed around by the wind of his travel.

"What would have happened if your father found out?"

"He would have killed me."

"So why do you have to behave the same?"

"No, he _would_ have killed me.", Lucius said, remembering Malfoy Senior in his prime glory, soaring green eyes as he sat behind his desk starring trough his young self, debating on which was the better sister for him to marry. Nobody asked him anything, that was never the point. It was on Lucius' shoulders to carry on the duty that Luther Malfoy put forth and he would do so with pride.

"Well, if I had behaved like my father, Draco never would have _dared_."

"You did.", Snape replied, watching Lucius light another cigarette, pressing it with his lips, never breaking the glance. His glass never seemed to be empty. This might prove to be...interesting.

"Draco's not me."

"Do you think he wants to be anything else? ", Snape said, watching Lucius eyes fill with almost regretful but still perversely intense pride. "So why deny the boy the little luxuries you had?"

His blue eyes darkened instantly.

"I wish I knew who it was."

"And what would you do if you did?"

"Make them regret it."

"For a short while I assume?"

"For all the remainder of their days.", Lucius replied, a self-satisfied smile appearing.

"I assumed as much. ", he said, betraying nothing of the, some would say foolish, pleasure that he dared indulge in. Lucius didn't know, he had come to talk with his friend, searching comfort or at least the presence of the only person, Severus knew, Lucius could betray his bewilderment to. The remainder of his life was set to know none of that, was meant for Lucius forget he was human, a word he never put much value in. Power built a man, weakness destroyed him. He could never forgive himself being an exquisite mix of both.

"Any ideas on whom?"

"Unfortunately," Lucius said, throwing the strong liquid in his mouth. "None. You?"

"It's not as if it happens in class."

"It would kill Narcissa."

"Most things would."

"You forget she's my wife."

"_Never. _", Severus said slowly, his voice seeming to stretch and deepen as he did.

"He does spend an awful lot of time with those two boys..."

"Give young Draco some credit Lucius, I doubt that would be...satisfying for him, or anyone for that matter."

"Well who then?"

"I don't know Lucius, I've told you before. Try to relax, will you? This isn't exactly life changing. "

"It could mean the end of my line. ", he said and for a few seconds, Severus remained silent. Was that all there was? He certainly thought not.

"I think...that's not your main concern. I think it bothers you that he's made the same _mistake_ as you once did. "

"Of course it does! I don't want him to have to..."

"Be as flawed as you are? That is what we're talking about, isn't it?"

He was answered by nothing but Lucius' sullen glance directed towards the floor, his concentration somewhat dazed from the drink.

"I think you mind nothing more than Draco enjoying something you yourself should never have. "

"That was the past..."

"Come back to rear its ugly head. I think you forget...how good it could be. Or is that it? Maybe you don't. Maybe that's what you don't like. "

"This isn't about me. "

"You're exactly what it's about. "

"You can't expect it not to bother me. I'm his father, I never wanted to...he's been brought up so he wouldn't learn my mistakes. "

"And now he's no longer the perfect little Malfoy."

Lucius sucked empty air in. He couldn't disagree with him. He had expected...more from his son. Now, he could only hope to expect the same sacrifice.

"Well, doesn't it bother you? You are his godfather, after all..."

Snape narrowed his eyes a bit at Lucius, whose beauty now seemed visibly affected by the alcohol. It happens to some people, the lines of their face soften or become somehow different, somehow more intense, their eyes gain a dazzling shine, an almost lascivious quality. It happened with Lucius. The anger and liquor mixed, making him look like he hadn't in years, when self control underneath the public eye became necessary and Lucius Malfoy would betray nothing but the self evident fact that he was indeed dangerous. Years ago, in the Voldemort years, he would tremble from the pleasure that power gave him, the remembrance of which remained his focus still. Severus looked at him, startled by the resemblance he shared with the Lucius whose grey eyes would shine with ecstasy and would visibly shed all control, the Lucius whose body he had been so familiar with then. Then again, maybe he had wished it, maybe the subject matter simply...rekindled an old flame or two. His thought returned to the imminent question and Snape got up, walking towards Lucius who stared back at him, awaiting his judgment of Draco, no doubt was he expecting that.

"I believe he may surprise you. "

"He's certainly managed to do that."

"No, I think he can do better than that. He's becoming more and more active in school for one thing, his interest in certain arts is certainly more prominent now than it ever was.", Lucius looked up at him, confused by the answer he was getting.

"Maybe", Severus went on, standing above him, one hand gripping a strong shoulder, no different than other friends did, "You should leave him his pleasures for now and see how it progresses. This might very well be exactly what he needs."

"What if it is? What if it becomes too important for him?"

"Impossible, Lucius. Remember your own name before you start questioning it. No Malfoy has ever put anything in front of that and Draco certainly won't be the first. It appears...he's got much too much of his father inside to ever do something as drastic."

For a moment, Lucius wasn't sure what to say. For his part, everything becoming slightly more unreal, and also slightly more relaxed, he wasn't sure if he had understood what Snape had truly meant. It seemed like something Severus would have said when he had wanted to torture him, making feel worse than he would feel when the fights began but something inside told him that his imagination might just be working on him. After all, didn't he say exactly what Lucius had truly hoped he would? In his characteristically ironic way, he had to admit that, but none the less...

"I hope you're right."

"You know I am.", Snape said, his deep voice soothing him down as he knelt in front of Lucius. m"Remember who you are Lucius. Remember what kind of boy you raised. He just might make you proud. "

His hand touched the pale, smooth skin of his younger lover's father, no different than a friend would, and for a moment he could almost believe in his own claim that it truly was no different, that he hadn't wanted anything more. That all this was really nothing more than a boy's father and godfather trying to handle his upbringing as best as they could. That when he saw the drunken, exhausted blue eyes look back, needing his comfort, that when he saw his lips part slightly, that knowing they would taste like him and whisky meant nothing to him. But only for a moment.

"Don't say that only to calm me down.", Lucius said as he closed his eyes for moments. He felt almost literally ill from the situation and was beginning to believe he could will it away. In spite of how he had felt when he arrived, his anger had faded almost completely, the feeling of disorientation remaining. But the horrible sense of being lost inside one's own life was being soothed down regardless of him clinging to it as if it was a religious truth, a belief he had to uphold because some things simply couldn't be accepted. But then again, he knew all things could. He of all people knew. So, he allowed himself to relax into Snape's words, starting even to believe them, and to relax inside his touch, a warm closeness, even this small, that he hadn't felt in years.

"I'm not. But you should, you know.", he said, bringing him closer, Lucius letting himself be brought to such close proximity that Snape felt at once intoxicated from the scent of skin he had once known every part of and the sharp smell of liquor, not that uncommon for their days as lover's, Severus was instantly reminded. Lord Voldemort's banquets...one could never have imagined a more decadent combination of guests and spells, drugs of the mind, body and any imaginable kind. They both used to love them. Now, as he pressed his lips to Lucius' forehead, his lips never quite leaving his skin as they moved down to his lips, the taste returned to him in it's full luster. Not that he had ever forgotten.

Lucius, who still seemed tense when it had started, kissed him back fiercely, obviously finding alcohol (Severus knew) and the disappointment of his son a good enough excuse. As Severus pulled him closer, grasping his neck, fingers mangled in between white locks, Lucius said nothing, never ending the kiss as his fingers began to work the buttons of Snape's own clothes. When he finally did look at him, all Severus could see was a need that Lucius seemed to put forth as viciously and as possessively as he could, wanting nothing more than it's absolutions.

Severus pushed him back on to the leather chair, rising as he did and forcing Lucius to remain perfectly still as he unbuckled his own silk. He knew he liked that, just as when his hands tightened around Lucius' wrists, he could feel him only pressing harder against his body, only wanting more, his eyes shut as moans escaped his mouth. That was apparently one of those things that never changes and they always, always liked it...raw. He felt teeth graze the skin of his neck and Lucius' large hands pushing him farther away from the chair, to the floor. Severus was just about desperate now to get him down underneath himself and as he slammed Lucius off in one movement so that he was on top of him, strong hands reached his chest.

So many times, it had felt like a struggle, like a violent tryst that found it's origin in desire that he didn't failed to realize immediately that this, now, really had turned into a full blown fight. Lucius liked violence, he always did, but this time, as Severus felt himself shoved back, it wasn't a game. It could have been, had he not seen the look in Lucius' eyes.

He could have sworn the man was sobered up, though he wasn't of course, judging by all that happened afterwards. The grey of his eyes became so completely cold in such a short time that when Severus finally did notice it, he loosened his hold immediately, disgusted by the scene. He felt his body fill with anger as powerful as the arousal had been and he got off him instantly, turning away as Lucius sat up, looking at his back and said in a completely sound voice, as if it should have been self explanatory but by some magical chance, wasn't:

"My son is sleeping in the next room. "

As soon as he said it, Snape understood perfectly why the change had been so sudden. Lucius hadn't thought of it earlier, so as soon as he did... Still, it made Severus no less angry.

"Not exactly a first time around set of circumstances.", he said and got up, only to be met by Lucius' furious glance, recovered from forgetfulness in a matter of seconds.

"He was a baby then, it was a long time ago!», he replied, fiddling with the onyx buttons on the velvet that he seemed too nervous to manage to use. "This..."

"What?", Snape said as sharply as his voice could cut. Temporarily, he regreted the fact that Malfoy was the only one that wouldn't shiver away from that voice very deeply.

"What do you think? It was a mistake, nothing more than that."

"It always is, darling Lucius. Haven't you learned that yet?", he replied, cloaked again in black and Lucius shot him a poisonous glance, Snape's lips twisting in a small smile born purely out of the satisfaction of telling him something he couldn't change but loathed to hear about himself. «Maybe that's young Draco's problem. Maybe he's come to understand something his father still can't.»

"And how would you know, ha!? What exactly puts you in that omnipotent position?", Lucius yelled back furiously.

"Nothing. Nothing except knowing you well enough to see old habits never quite die out."

"One. Time. Shot.", he replied trough his teeth, as slowly and fiercely as he could. The truth was, both were quite shaken up by the unexpected turn of events and both completely determined not to betray the smallest sign of it.

"I'm glad your son would disagree."

"Why? So you can throw it in my face?"

"You do that rather well on your own."

"Like you could ever understand what having a son is like!"

Snape couldn't help but suppress a bitter laugh at this point. He had been reminded of his own position, a position that put Lucius completely in his power without him knowing, a position where the Malfoy family is finally exactly where it should be. Beneath him.

"I don't have a child but I have Draco. I treat him...like I would my own."

"That still doesn't make it the same!"

"Thank Heavens for young Draco."

"And what is that supposed to signify?"

"Exactly that. I think he might just be very grateful for having someone to run to after his father calls him a disgrace for something he himself couldn't help doing!"

"And I suppose that's horribly hard to understand for someone who was perfectly aware he was fucking someone who always planned to marry! Please Severus, instruct me on the value of principles! Tell me, from your own benevolent perspective, how I should treat a boy whos passions will never have a future?!"

Severus froze dead in his place. For all they had said to each other, he had never expected it to come to this. He had never expected Lucius saying words again that could cut this deep. He simply watched him as he went on, the pure, uncontroled rage in his eyes enough to put Severus back fifteen years in the past when they never thought things would, or could for that matter, end up like this, end up laced with a bitterness that seemed to resemble a neverending sickness that persisted to devour them from inside, never quite ending and never leaving, a part of them that had been there so long that they couldn't have even imagined a life without it. Now, it seemed to make it's presence known again in a way that made him unable to do anything but let it spread trough his blood with the sight of man that, with his words, was encouraging it to do just that. Lucius seemed beside himself, the force of his own voice tearing at his own, shaking body.

"Tell me, should I comend him for doing something that will lead to nothing but deprivation and will make him look at himself with...Am I supposed to encourage something that will only make life that much harder? Give me a reason and I will! Give me one bloody good reason that would make what he's doing worth it!"

Lucius said, his eyes blazing, consumed by the very same illness he had worked so hard to become accustomed to, one he had been almost certain he had gotten rid of. He encountered no reply, no words that would make him continue basking in his own anger as Severus looked at him, speechless. A desperation spread trough him in a matter of seconds as he meet with a silence that sounded worse than any kind of insult, outraged words or simple hatred. He could have born being met by anything but that. He watched, his breathing threatening to tear open his chest as Snape's eyes turned an almost unfanthomable cold that dispayed nothing. He didn't move away until Lucius, unabble to bear looking at him a moment longer, turned to the wall and went straight for the liquer cabinet, the whisky bottle being dry. He knew what a bad decision it had been, but he couldn't imagine brining himself to do anything else.

As he turned, pouring himself some of the newly opened scotch, an expressionless voice began speaking.

"There has never been a reason good enough, you're right about that Lucius. Never, not even when we were sure there was. I believe...we have made that perfectly clear to eachother. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of.", Severus said and without a word more, left the room, leaving Lucius alone there with nothing but what had just happened. He stood there as if stricken, almost phisically sickened what had been said, both by him and by Severus. He hadn't meant to do it. He hadn't meant to show him just how close to home this whole situation, this little bit of phisical closenes, had affected him.

But he did. He had said things that he would never be able to take back, things he would never even try to take back simply because of what that would do to him, where it would inevitably lead. He couldn't. He couldn't endure facing all of their private darkness the second time around, making himself once again so completly open to all the demons it conjured. Some things had to be left burried, even if they could never be destroyed, never be killed no matter how desperately you wanted them to leave you. They had done too much to eachother already.

As he closed the door behind himself, Severus closed his eyes in the comfort of the depthless darkness that filled it. He stood there, trying to calm himself, trying somehow to compose himself again. He knew that, as hours passed, they would never speak of it again. They would let it sink inside, drowning in the same depths where they put their past. In a few hours, nothing will have changed. Nothing ever changed. The past remained locked up somewhere, in a darkness much blacker and deeper than this, in a place they hardly ever went.

When they did... it ended up like this. Lucius truly had been right. There never was a reason good enough to account for it. He certainly hadn't been enough. Nothing seemed to serve as comfort for what they had gone trough and Severus was rather certain that nothing would ever explain any of it. It was a poison they had been addicted to, that they had consumed with all the faith they possessed. It was a poison they would never be cleansed off, no matter how hard they tried.

As he opened the door, still as quietly as he could, his eyes fell on the young body that slept there, his white hair covering the pillow, his cheeks now dry. He slept soundly now, his chest rising calmly with every breath, his still slightly childish beauty self evident on the black sheets, looking almost...pure.

For a moment, Severus wondered on what he was doing to the boy. Here was a young man, no, a _child_, that still had a chance against this twisted game that he and his father called life. Here was a child with no scars, no pains to deal with and bear, no wounds that threatened to never heal.

Here was a child that could escape all of that and be happy, be safe from people like him, from people that would use him for themselves, all the while knowing full well why and what kind of harm they would cause. Here was a child that hadn't been hurt.

Yet.

A smile came over his lips and he bent to kiss the white hair, Draco oblivious to his touch. He turned off the light, leaving the room. All of the sudden, he felt calm.


	2. Awakening

Vaguely, with the tinge of light playing slowly against his skin, with the dust-filled air seeming to light up in front of his eyes, a clarity, solemn and cold wordlessly taking hold of the entire room, Lucius Malfoy brushed his fingers trough his hair, realizing that, against all his better intention, he had missed the dawn. He had been completely confident, without even the slightest possibility of reproach, that it was but an hour away from when Severus had exited the room, and that, just as surely, he would wait it out there, reading perhaps, anything but sleeping. They had both known Lucius would not leave home that night. They had both known neither would sleep. They had both known there was an agreement passed between them the moment he arrived that all would be left in silence, whatever be the occurrence, and all would be done as proper. Gracefuly, or perhaps a bit less than he usually did, Lucius stretched himself in the armchair, silently cursing the fact that of all the people whose existence he had become acquainted off, it was a tie between Severus and that damned Headmaster of who could make him feel more agitated, or more exhausted. He shuddered even to think of how he looked now, cringed at the thought that he didn't even really know whether Snape had house elves or enough of them, and, most of all, he dreaded the fact that the proper thing to do now would be to go and wake his own son, perhaps the only person he now wanted to see less that Snape himself.

Lucius Malfoy stood up, conjuring himself instantly both water and some coffe, marveling at how numb and incoherent his own mind now appeared to him, and stepped right up to the window, wishing that the cool air that met his skin would be enough to calm him, or at least soothe him for the time being, enough to carry this out, wordlessly, and without the appearance of effort. When his glance was met with nothing but the sight of muggles and trash that occupied the dirtied street, Lucius could feel himself sigh against his own wishes, and he considered, for a moment, not considering anything at all…This could be ridden out, he thought when he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into an incoherency that strangely resembled peace, perhaps simply for his desperate need for the same. Such details being unimportant, at least for the time being, Lucius tried to concentrate simply on the air, his own skin, simply on the silence that apparently reigned trough the house, making his cheeks flush unwontedly at the remembrance that, truly, this wasn't always what it looked like. He felt his own body stiffen unwontedly at the mere recollection that, indeed, Snape was present somewhere in this house and he, he could not let himself even consider the idea of sleep, at least not willingly, for as long as he was. Lucius knew it was much earlier than he had wanted it to be. He was also aware of the fact that those ten to fifteen minutes he had dozed of in the chair were the total of rest he was going to get tonight. Neither of them would sleep, neither of them even dreamed of it. Such was their agreement. Lucius could feel him, all trough the night, rummaging trough the house, moving about it, always, every second, perfectly aware of the other presence. He thought of whether his mind was playing tricks on him, and whether he could still find it in himself to care. Whether Severus had moved at all, or had sat, just as he did, an all enduring, impenetrable statue of stealth, thinking of him, damning him, hating him as he hadn't in years. Merlin… This was a frail friendship indeed. And drudging up old wounds was…unneeded. To say the least.

A deep breath, as ever, a deep breath and he could feel his fists clench. A deep breath, darkness, to enjoy a little longer, a deep breath, and he would feel nothing. He exhaled, a long whisper of air, and looked sternly at the streets that stared back at him. He was not a part of this. No, Lucius thought, the pale gray of determined eyes meeting these same streets with more than a little glimmer of hatred and pride, he had never been part of this. His hands glided his hair back, wrapping velvet around it and, without a second glance; he walked up the stairs to where he knew his son was staying. This could be easy. It had to be. A few moments more, and he wouldn't have to see him. Them. Neither of them. For some reason, one seemed to mirror the other, inexplicably, twisting him into what he didn't need to resemble. Whatever on Earth that had been.

He opened the door, swiftly, without making a sound, and his eyes stopped, stopped unwantedly at the sight of his son, sleeping, exquisitely laid out on black sheet, streched, his ivory hair falling on the silken pillows, and Lucius felt his breath catch in his throat, painfully, for he didn't remember when he had been afforded such a startling sight of beauty, and such tangible perversity in it. He could not, for all the objections he could feel his mind making, stop himself from admiring the boy, with such pale skin, much like his own, probably still as tender as that of a woman, still as smooth, his reddened lips, his high, piercing cheekbones, the dark eyelashes now closed, and…The dark purple bruise, slightly red still, that so visibly engraved itself atop such skin, marking it with a desine of pure wrath that had put it there, decorating the boy with a sign…A sign that so closely resembled ownership. A sign his own Father had put there.

And what of it? Lucius thought to himself. He had been beaten worse, a lot worse than Draco ever was. He himself had probably hit him worse than this on many an occasion. Why then…Did he feel a very distinct surge of guilt rising within him? Was it for…noticing the bruise had tainted such beauty? Was it for, years having passed, seeing his boy was not yet a man but a work of art? Or was it…That the bruise hadn't hurt him. That he didn't regret the mark, thinking it becoming, thinking it an exaggeration of the perfection it was placed upon. He loved his son. Always, always he had loved his son. It wasn't even conscious decision that brought his hand to the boys head, gliding stray strands of hair away from his face, gently, ever so tenderly, caressing the boys head, sitting down next to him.

His forefinger brushed with Draco's bruise, slowly feeling the swollen skin beneath it and, Lucius moved, cautious, ever so cautious as to not wake him, and pressed his lips onto it, lingering there, perhaps a bit to long, his tongue touching it in a kiss, a kiss that was meant to bless it. He felt Draco shift beneath him and, against his better instincts, against what he had planned to do, the stern father he had planned to play, he brought his lips against the boy's forehead, a hard and desperate kiss placed there, and a whisper, and a whisper, almost inaudible, mumbled against his skin.

„Wake up, son."

Feeling such a hasty intake of warm breath against his face, the hard touch against his forehead having lost the meaning of the words that were just as precisely pressed into his skin, Draco whimpered against the touch, a sharp intake of breath replacing the hazy one of sleep and, with a dazed slowness, he murmured a confused „what?", not yet having opened his eyes.

Lucius hadn't heard him. He hadn't been able to make himself open his eyes again, his own forehead not presed fiercly against his son's, a large hand covering his face, wrapping up the bruise, shielding it from anyone's glance but his own. He had given everything, everything for the boy underneath him, everything he had. And he could forgive him. Merlin, he didn't want to, but he could. When he saw this, when he saw…

„Wake up, Draco."

He breathed the words, harsher now, into his son's mouth, not even touching his lips, and finally, finally consented once again to move away, look at the boy, stop…Whatever sort of unneeded coddling this was and proceed…He sighed. Proceed to what was necessary. The irony was not lost to him. His son now sleeping in his former lovers bed. The white hair of his offspring spreading itself as his own once did against black pillows. As Draco's did against another's bed, somewhere, someone at Hogwarts for Merlin's sake, waking up at dawn to watch his son sleep, as he just did, kissing the very same face he did in order to bring him from the clutches of dreams and back into the world, someone else would make him aware of their presence.

No, they weren't allowed that yet. Not trough all the seven years of Hogwarts had he ever even thought of sleeping in a lovers bed. Not that he used beds, not that that location was safe enough. Not that he could…Not that his lover had been of the same year. Not that, he imagined, it would have held half it's thrill then if it wasn't for the hidding. Wasn't for muffled moans behind locked doors in a lavatory, wasn't for being pressed against the ground in the Dark Forest, wasn't for…

„The feeling of rape is how I'd describe it.", a silken voice brought both him and Draco into awareness, Draco unaware of anything but the sight of his father rising instantly off the bed and turning to the other end of the room where, Lucius guessed, it was apparent Draco's godfather had been sitting the entire time.

The look on Snape's eyes tired but vicious, Lucius' own face going black in a matter of seconds, he looked at him, the silent rage coursing trough his veins. Had he been that open? Or could Severus simply not stop himself?

„Severus", he said, his voice both deliberately relaxed and stretched as it customarily was, as coy as none of his words truly were, „I'd like a few words with my son, if you please."

Draco was literally petrified as he watched the scene that unfolded, his father and lover both there, his body so stiff from the most horrendous fear he had ever felt himself experience that he didn't even believe he could move at all. He tried, desperately, mind racing, heart pounding, he tried desperately to convince himself he had misunderstood, that they weren't, were not and could not be, talking about him. That it was impossible, that it could not and would not be an option that his father knew. And yet, the cool look of hate he could see in Snape's eyes, and the rigid, unmoving appearance his father led on even with his back turned to him made him suspect otherwise.

Severus got up, slowly walking towards Lucius, his glare menacingly passing over him in a slowness that nearly made the older Malfoy feel ill.

„Occupational hazard, you'll have to forgive me."

Lucius inclined his head, forcing Snape to look at his eyes and nothing but, to remember, just how cold they could be.

„Haven't you pried enough", he whispered so Draco would be unable to discern, their faces so close Severus could feel this whisper on himself, the barely controlled rage Lucius felt making it shake „To know where I stand on the matter of giving it to half bloods who never learn their place?"

He thought, for certain, Severus would have hit him. Or cursed him. It didn't matter. Lucius wanted to kill him, he was sure, each word was just pleading an excuse to do it. This could not have been true. He could not have possibly possessed the audacity to try and invade his mind. And still, he could put nothing past Severus, nothing, he knew that, he had always, always known. He could not find a single thing that damn boy was not capable of, and nothing he would shudder from doing.. He was sure this was going to be the last time they would ever speak. Lucius would have relished in it, and he was certain the slightly younger professor staring back at him, black eyes again unreadable, would do so as well.

Instead, Snape's lips twisted into a smile and with a voice that was sickeningly pleased with itself, he turned first to Draco and then again to Lucius.

„Forgive me. Of course I'll give you a few minutes. If there's anything I'm aware of, it's my place."

With that and not a syllable more, he closed the door behind himself and was off.

Lucius turned, his face a mask of threatening composed, and glared at his son.

„Well?", he asked.

Draco could not even bring himself to speak.

„Have you forgotten the date as well as your name?", Lucius said, without even a hint of raising his voice at all. „I suggest you remember such things Draco."

„Ummm, yes, Father.", was all Draco could bring himself to mumble now.

„I will expect you down stairs in no less than a quarter of an hour."

With that, he too was gone. Draco stared, befuddled around himself at the unfamiliar surroundings, remembering that today was the morning he was meant to return to school and that his father had found him in Snape's house.

His fear not having subsided but simply having been presented just cause, he rushed as if his life hung in the balance.

_And it does, Draco._ His father told him as they exited the house, if one could, in both their opinions, have afforded it that name. _Disobey me, ever again, and I promise, I will not find you again. I will not return for my son. I will not have one._


	3. Let the mindgames begin

**Author's note: Darling readers, we are finally nearing the true beginning of this story. As it is but this chapter away, I would be very grateful to hear your thoughts and insights as to how much Death Eater past you would be partial to seeing. I myself feel thoroughly inclined to writing a hell of a lot and will do so in the upcoming parts. So, c'mon, motivate me;)**

**For those who already did (and will, hopefully, be pleased enough to continue doing so) I give my thanks and appreciation. And kisses. But not too many. I doubt anyone here is too fond of that mushy stuff.;) **

**Now, onto the story.**

**(Oh and, I forgot the disclaimer at the beginning. Alas, I own nothing.)**

„_You bloody bastard! My wife! You tried-" , Lucius could barely get the words out. He hadn't expected, well, he hadn't expected any of this. Had he imagined, awaited its unfolding, he would have seen, clearly, as clearly as all they had tarnished and bathed themselves in, that Severus would have waited. Waited for him, just as he, and the Potion's master hadn't dared admit it, just as he had, for these years, for these months, for these mysteries and legends of bloodbath, awaited him. Had there been a pleasure greater…Had there been…a memory he harvested with more care, with more desire…Had there been…A spell of greater majesty…Then maybe he wouldn't have. Merlin, maybe. A lifelong trap of such meaningless, useless probabilities. Maybe he wouldn't have even tried. Then again, maybe not._

_Cool, unaffected, his face an undecipherable masterpiece of lack of expression as it so frequently appeared to be these days, even to him, the soon-to-be spy turned-turned to look at him as if he had been asked a pure triviality, nothing more than inquired on the weather._

„_So, I failed?"_

_Lucius could feel, instantly, his resolve shatter whilst his rage grew._

„_She's pregnant!", he managed to wail out, everything, breaking, everything except…_

„_Have you forgotten to tell me?"_

_Again, nothing. Nothing in his eyes, nothing but the unutterable silence of what was then revealed on the newlywed's face. Nothing that could be detected there, nothing to be seen. Nothing, nothing at all. All that he had ever cared for. Nothing, nothing at all…_

And there's another for the Pensieve, the magical envelope of memories.

The Potions Master, feeling himself empty, feeling himself old, an elder to his dreams, drew out another silver line out of his mind, letting it mingle with the rest. Like love, the device made many promises. Like in love, when one used the Pensieve, they vanished, as if they had never been given at all.

It is said, as if in a manual, a guide to all desperate enough to relieve their brain of their lives, that it would help, that it would cure all those who longed for innocence, the lackluster grace of naiveté, the exasperation of deceit which still held more allure than having to face what you are and will, reluctantly again, never cease to be. Manny things are said in this world. Most, as ever, are lies. Most importantly, the memories never leave. They simply…spread, as if a dream, as if ethereal, as if air itself. Whatever it is you breathe. Furthermore, and he wished he had had this to correct in a magical encyclopedia when he was no more than a schoolboy, they promise you _objectivity._ Unless, and he could just imagine scribbling this down in bold and ragged letters, you never withheld such a trait to begin with. Love is a matter of illusion, and should be treated as such. In the moment when, just like a magical prosperity of sorts, you willingly allow its invasion- you have lost all power, for power is the empire of will, to view it as others would but as only your childish eyes can, for you are a child again, property of one world and nothing more, nothing else as ever you were. In effect, you cannot see yourself, for then you didn't. Then you couldn't. Didn't want to…It didn't matter. Just as long as _he_ could

He wondered, sometimes, how the ghastly figure of these recollections had viewed him, if perhaps the beauty glistening from the man he could, on the other hand, view so vividly as if to touch, if perhaps such beauty had in part… Had in part been his reflection. If he still had the strength to believe there was purity there after all, or if he could believe, feign desire so as to not believe it; to convince himself, and conviction built a man, there was nothing there at all. Nothing, nothing at all, but the man he sought to banish from his brain. He could never, in most of what had constructed their years together under the Dark Lord, see anything but Lucius. As if their memories weren't shared at all but a temple built in the hope of the reawakening, the rebirth in fact, of a god. Of a time, when they had believed themselves, and what they felt, immortal. As if their past had been nothing but this silver Narcissus staring back at him, looking into himself, trying to break…Whatever was left to break of their reality. A beauty that had become, or perhaps had never needed to become, more than this. More than the trappings of illusion itself. More than what he could never let go of, for he had never known a heaven greater than being enveloped in the arms of such murderous desire, more than setting his glance atop flowers that had a will of their own, a will to the death. His. Theirs. It didn't matter.

The third, and final, promise is that it helps. Eases things. However it is you wish to call being freed of your memories. If the first two were not so grand a broken promise, he might have considered this the worst. The Pensieve is a monstrous thing, a wicked thing, as if it has a will of its own. Or can convince you it does. When you can refuse, so to speak, refuse your memories as part of yourself, and separate them into a world, a world of transparent and immaculate nothingness, whose to say you won't be… tempted? There were tales, and the naive called them fiction but Severus knew better, of those that had spent their lives in it, dying finally from the simple fact that they had…forgotten to live. Eat. Breathe sometimes. Go to the bathroom. They had forgotten that nothing in it was but a valley of ghosts, the timid figures of the past, untouched by a hand that resembled, once, what had felt like warmth. What had felt life blood. Like life. When in it, you placed the soul you wished to shed, who's to say you won't be forced to face its remained? When, perhaps, you discovered what was left of yourself was nothing to begin with, nothing but what you wished to lose, what you wished to outgrow in the first place. When the present bared nothing, nothing of the glory of the past. Nothing of what you wanted to see in yourself. Nothing of what you lost and didn't think you could lose. Nothing of him.

He could barely contain himself from watching them, even the bad ones, even the horrid memories that swirled like snakes around his throat. Sometimes, you grow addicted to your own inability to breathe.

And another. And another. Even the last one.

Here's another for the Pensieve.

Finally, what was a shell, a shroud, the sight of your life, is full. You cannot erase what courses trough you, and all the better, no? No. But you will never find that in magic books.

Fine, he thought. Fine. He could live. Again, he could live, he had lived. For a week now, he had been torturing Draco. This, if nothing else, should have made him happy. It didn't, but then, what of such silly trinkets? It would, as soon as he calmed himself. Wish a smirk, and then the expression itself would come. He was more than this. Once, he was more than this. Perhaps then, he would again become it.

For a week now, the younger Malfoy was at his wits end, and very unwillingly so, to say the least of his troubles. His bruise had faded, his fears had not. Father was cold, or more so than usual in demeanor, Mother, perhaps, did not know of his conduct, and Severus…a name he had never yet dared use, said nothing. Nothing at all. Didn't even meet his eyes, much less any other part of him.

Friday came, with it Potions double period, and he knew, he knew it was now or never for him and his raven haired godfather. Why then, was Draco petrified at the thought? A sickly premonition of sorts had invaded him, and he dared not, or felt so, even test its wrath. It felt like never. He knew, surely, if he did not try, it would be. Why then, and damn his fears to oblivion, why could he not even bring himself to look up. Why did he not believe he would be called for, as he always was, sometimes more than a week spanning between such meetings, much less his Father's display of disapproval. He should have expected…an initial lack of enthusiasms from Snape. Some would have even described it as worry. Some even as care. Why then, did it feel like the end?

Finally, he brought his eyes off of the empty, untouched paper of his notebook and stared wantonly at Snape, hoping it appeared at least…minorly seductive. Look at me, he thought. For Merlin's sake, please, look at me. I need you to look at me. If you don't notice…

„Mister Malfoy, is there a reason you're leering at me and not taking notes?"

So, he did look. With a shudder, snapping out of his trancelike state and perceiving what had been said to Draco's own ultimate horror, he did look. So did the entire class.

„Is there a question afraid to unveil itself somewhere beneath your blank expression? Or am I holding my breath against all odds that you're wasting both yours and my time for no reason?"

The class gasped. At least ten boys and girls, Slytherins and Gryffindors, actually gasped. Never had Snape treated any member of his own house, much less the blond boy turning more and more crimson by the moment, in such a despicable, vile manner.

Malfoy, whose throat was instantly dry, drew a shaky breath and shook his head, muttering, under his breath, for he could not bring himself to speak louder than a whisper, something that to those nearest to him, sounded quite like an apology.

„What, mister Malfoy? You might have noticed that, although I am neither blind nor deaf, I am also not standing right near you. Or has your incessant staring not alerted you to that fact? "

„Y-y-yes sir, it has.", he said, so petrified, in fact, that he could not imagine another answer, more charming, could have been given. And perhaps it couldn't. At least he couldn't.

His fear had spread trough the entire dungeon. Everyone, now, was staring at Snape with their breath caught inside their throats.

„Eloquent, mister Malfoy. I would suggest that you _start writing!_", he said, turning, his bat-like form swiftly scurrying towards his desk, followed by yet another gasp from those that still felt as if their bodies contained the ability to speak.

He turned, as if un-phased by this, or any other reaction he had just been given, and eyed them all, his eyes lingering but a second longer on Draco.

„All. Of. You. And you, mister Malfoy, will see me after class."

Unthought-of, instinctive against all his better judgment, a smile barely noticeable spread across Draco's pink, pale lips.

„And ten points off of Slytherin for your smirking."

The entire room, as if an entity in itself, a living organism, shrilly drew their breath then, loudly, horribly, as if it was the last breath they could have imagined themselves taking, for this, in itself, signified not only the end of their days, but life as such. The planet. Wizards. Magic. Anything and everything at all. Perhaps not Snape himself.

Some, some had actually screamed, catching themselves only after they had done so, a hand or two instantly traveling to their shamed and betraying mouths.

„And twenty points off of Gryffindor for what I can only imagine was a display of…well, I can't imagine what this was a display of. Next time, I encourage you all to strive for excellence and try, an endeavor as it may be for such a house, to use words. "

So, the world hadn't ended at all. Instantly, he was shot at least twenty scolding looks, one particularly nasty coming from the face of one boy-who-lived. Snape turned to his side of the classroom, a smirk of his own spreading itself on his thin lips.

„As motivation, I offer you another thirty points to work for. Let us start with Potter's potion, though I have an inkling that won't help. "

Draco could not help but laughing out loud at this one and Snapehead shot back, though more slowly this time, in his direction, making his body go stiff with such a slight movement so capable of causing panic.

„Mister Malfoy, we must not discourage our star. It is said he is to save us all, it would be improper to insinuate he could not brew the simplest of sleeping potions. "

His spider-like fingers wrapped themselves around a small glass withholding a few spoonfuls of what Harry's cauldron was filled with.

„Or…", his nose wrinkling, he sat the glass down. „Not. Things look quite…bleak for the wizarding world. Ah, at least in this, our future matches Potters abilities. "

Draco winked at him, winked at his eternal arch nemesis, reveling in his humiliation and having almost entirely forgotten his own. Perhaps then, some things never change. Or, at least, would not do so now.

Perhaps then, things would be alright after all.

A pair of dark orbs was again on him, shedding all that felt like a menacing stare for something that, to him, appeared to be almost gentle.

"Never make assumptions, mister Malfoy", Snape's mind answered dryly. "your father should have taught you that."

Champaign curtains, the marble floor filled with silk, velvet and the occasional object that wasn't part of the very elaborate but mostly black wardrobe, the nervous rummage of house elves and their timid hands going trough every shelf, every part of every cupboard, their fingers shaking, shaking at the mere though that they might miss anything. Lucius Malfoy himself was on his knees, tearing apart what was left of an incantation-guarded box that had, until seconds ago, been shoved under Draco's bedpost, his determination making him deny himself even the simple pleasure of being certain, or fairly so, that this was it. That this indeed was what he had been looking for, finally. That as the house elves were yet to find anything, and this was a feat they would pay dearly for, in the entire room that belonged to the heir of the Malfoy manor, anything at all that was not purchased either by Draco or Lucius himself there, that indeed this well guarded thing would contain the truth. Would tell him, after he performed the sole and final incantation needed to determine this, who the object belonged to, and who it was, indeed, who it was had taken his son.

Under his wand, his lips unmoving, his mind controlled in concentration, the lock broke beneath the gilded surface, the lid raising itself, revealing the engraved letters that covered yet another under layer that must be broken trough. In his hands lay a box Lucius himself had given to his boy as a present. He knew, he had picked it out; the layers were three, the combinations vast, the possibilities of error few until the box decided to burn itself to no more than a few sprinkles of ash at his feet. Luckily enough, he had seen plenty of these, used more than a few for more than few purposes. It was quite simple to break. You simply had to, strange as it sounds; convince the box it wanted to be opened. A dull, but nonetheless productive method.

A smile reached his lips as at last. The third layer had cracked.

He opened each compartment, one by one, anxious to see what they had contained. I was the only way, the only possible way that didn't include either Polyjuice Potion or begging (something he would not do had his son's life depended on it) Snape to play spy for him, that he could think of possibly leading him to the identity of his Draco's lover.

When they had apparated to the Manor, Draco was instructed to pack nothing but his school robes and books. To make sure he didn't lie and take something else, he had stood right by him, not speaking, causing Draco not only to forget two books, but his tie as well. He was surprised to find the child was so afraid as to not realize what this instruction meant. Not displeased at it, but certainly surprised. It took a noticably irritated reminder from his side in order for Draco to remember to take his owl at all. They had left the room a mess and, as soon as he had returned, Lucius sent the houseelves in. Malfoy Senior was famous for getting what he wants, even if it did require time.

Now, a week from when he had started, he felt as if he had finally cracked the mystery that had eluded him these past few days. If Draco went to such lengths to hide whatever secrets this case held, it must mean he himself had succeeded.

As he opened the last compartment, one hidden beneath all the rest, a silver object unveiled itself, glistening there on the purple insides of the already dust encrusted treasure. His hands remained still, making no gesture at all, and yet he was unable either to take the ring, or to set the box down.

The smile was whipped right off of the elder Malfoy's face.

He recognized it. Yet his face showed nothing. No recollection, no memory, not even a tinge of amusement, or interest, or lack of the same.

It showed nothing.

Nothing at all indeed.

TBC


	4. Wild bells

Blaise Zabini had just exited the school's main grounds, and, a few glances passed to each side, nothing and no one to witness him but the grandeur of the stone bridge atop which he stood, he pulled of his back pocket, a cellular phone. Merlin himself could not have convinced him it wasn't more practical than an owl, especially, and what a predicament this was, if one had a muggle girlfriend. He shuddered unwillingly, inwardly at the thought, his hand shaking timidly as he punched in the number. Muggles had words like bisexuality, cell phone, even, heretical as it sounded, child abuse (it had taken him a while to comprehend this one).

Purebloods, on the other hand, never needed these words. They had _tradition._ He had tried, though not often for he had soon seen it was a smarter decision to simply spare himself the effort, to try and make others see that. His best friend Draco Malfoy was a lost cause on this from the beginning, and yet, Blaise tried to make him comprehend that, perhaps, being raised to become ones father was simply not all it was cracked up to be. It was as if he was talking to stone. That, and, as if the Dark Lord's rules had existed centuries earlier, and perhaps they had, talking about it, simply talking about all the facts and facets on which ones own world was built, talking about it meant doubt. And, if one doubted, one obviously was not raised properly. He had found one muggle equivalent to this-the pureblood families bared a sticking resemblance to what they called the 'mafia'. However, there were no laws, and those that existed, as in the case of the aforementioned idea, were simply not bright enough to stop what was the base and moral background of the wizarding elite, those that had to fight with all their might to still be thought of as such in these times of peril. With each time he punched in his girlfriends number he risked not only what was his name, inheritance, the people that called themselves loving parents, oh no, not only this. Blaise Zabini risked his very life each time he called to ask how she was. And he knew it. He wouldn't have admitted it, but this very reason for his ongoing bursts of adrenaline was half the thrill.

As funny as it might seem, contradictory to the point of lunacy, right now, he felt strangely elated because of it, joyous enough not to notice that, at the end of the corridor, a black shape was appearing. He hadn't heard the footsteps for his conversation was making him careless, carefree with little or no reason to be so, and, when he finally turned his glance away from the view that was spiraling down from his eyes, the majestic site of nature enveloping an ancient castle, making it seem as the brim of impossible fantasy personified, he saw that, twenty feet down, none other than Lucius Malfoy himself was approaching him. Giving it no thought, Blaise cut his girlfriend midsentnce as he turned of the phone, chokingly placing it in his back pocket, as he watched, the ongoing rhythm of his approach sending a threatening echo trough the hall, as if in slow motion, as he watched what was perhaps the second worse person (next to his own father) that could have caught him in the act of such a monstrosity, coming his way. Blaise could feel his own thoughts fade, he could hear only the sole thought that he couldn't think at all find its way into his mind. He was dead, and this, like other things, was a fact Blaise could feel himself becoming more and more aware of by the moment. Dead. He could just imagine, or perhaps he couldn't even imagine it, the tone of voice in which Lucius fucking Malfoy would tell of the sight he was unfortunate enough to be witness too, a ghastly apparition of such lack of respect that he felt like reprimanding the child right there himself, and we all know what that would have meant. Dead. This was a burst of adrenaline Blaise didn't particularly like. Imagine his surprise then when Lucius Malfoy passed right by him, barely answering to the obviously breathless greeting the young Zabini had given him.

Somehow, he found the energy to absently nod at the child. Even in situations like this, with such breeding, your manners never left you. Nor, ironically enough, your commonsense. Lucius had had enough of both to owl Dumbledore that he had urgent business with the Potions Master, something to do with an investment that concerned not only the professor but the school as such as it would determine the funding of the upcoming… He had lied trough his teeth, and badly as that because it held no relevance whatsoever. The Headmaster would assume it was Voldermort's business and allowed it because it was Snape's job to play spy. It was too conspicuous, so much so that the wizard was a step away from not allowing the visit at all because he thought it could pose a threat to the school, but caved in on the invitation when he decided that it might mean some sort of inner strife in the Dark Lords circles, and thus, something of grave importance not only for the Order, but the wizading world as such. Lucius knew all this. He knew his visit would be under close watch, he knew Snape would be interrogated on its subject matter seconds latter. He didn't care. He couldn't even bring himself to spare a thought. He walked down the corridor, oblivious to the students he passed. He had barely made himself seem composed enough to great the teachers that noticed him when he entered, sensing their fear that something would happen to Hogwarts. His presence seemed to bring that out in them. Usually, Lucius would be glad. This time, he wanted to stay unmonitored until he reached the person he was looking for. He was visibly sickened by the fact that he knew his rage was evident. He didn't look like himself, he didn't look like the Malfoy family heir. He looked like a Death Eater.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks when he saw him approach. He gripped Hermione's arm so fiercely that it hurt, bringing her out of a conversation she seemed to be having with Ron. As soon as she looked up his reason became evident for her. Instantly, he gripped his wand inside his coat. He hadn't expected it. He looked Lucius straight into his eyes, trying to show him he wasn't afraid, trying to show himself. He noticed something strange then, something that seemed to make the moment less clear to him. His eyes seemed somehow...blurred.

He saw then that Lucius hadn't even been looking at him, not even for a moment. He hadn't been looking at anyone. As the dark figure passed by them, they looked at each other, visibly shaken and confused.

«Where is he going?», Harry asked.

«Hopefully to see Malfoy.», Ron answered with a smirk. "I certainly would want to be around if he's that angry him."

"How do you know?", Hermione asked, slowly shaking off the chills that went trough her. This was Hogwarts. This was a place that might not be that safe, but at least protected them from people like him. It seemed somehow...invaded by his verry presence.

"Well, who else would he be visiting?"

&&&&&&&&&&&

_In the days of Lord Voldemort, no one, not one single Death eater, could have counted the numbers. Blood spilled in the night, black under the moonlight, covering the tortured faces of those that fought against them, those foolish enough to dare to resist. In one brilliant flash of green light, life evaporated only to mix with the screams of the rest, their desperation colliding with black power, making it stronger with every crimson gash, every worthless cry that escaped their victim's lips. They could do nothing but feed upon it._

_Lucius and Severus, unlike many other followers and more than the others that truly worshipped, never felt the decaying taste of fear before a battle. Instead, expectation overcame them, until destruction, a marvelous child of pain and violent ecstasy came upon the night. It had been a beauty only few truly understood, one only the chosen really felt, but one with such overpowering strength that they could feel it inside, a clarity more exquisite, more consuming than anything they had ever experienced. There were nights when, in the dust covered stillness of one room, the terror filled moans of only one victim faced with the Crucio spell would break the silence. There had been nights where all noise would cease in a family's house, the horror on a mother's face still visible as on her dead body, the corpse of a child left bloodstains- There had been night as where unsuspecting muggles would stumble upon a fight and they would decide the Obliviate spell wasn't quite interesting enough. Often, insanity came before the body was weak enough to cease, the mind escaping before life had, unable to face being drained and taken, explored and raped by men whose eyes shone furious pleasure. Tonight, the word closest to describing it was slaughter._

_Many of them fought bravely, holding their positions to the last. Few, on the other hand, hadn't let panic overcome them in those moments when they came face to face with the true Death Eaters, horrified by the sight of their eyes in the light of spells and curses, nothing more apparent there than sickening desire for what was to come. As he dealt the death blow to a seemingly fearless member of Dumbledore's filthy order, striking the torture curse harder than before, a smile spread on Lucius' lips as a deafening scream filled the air, ending as the twisted body finally stilled. Severus saw the white hair that covered his dark cape and watched him crouch down over the victim, a tall Ravenclaw they had gone to school with. He remembered him vaguely, repeatedly fascinated by how the faces of those that died from your hands, their bodies relieved of breath, their eyes nothing more than glass, threatened to become eternal memories, engraved pictures in your mind, while faces of those you know seem to leave you unnoticed. He walked closer in silence, leaving the body of a woman to lay spread out on the dirt, her past discarded by him who ended it, the sight of her corpse forever embedded in him, silent, horrific glory covering it. _

_He was breathing hard, not from tiredness but excitement and as he saw Lucius turn abruptly, facing him, deep breaths gracing his marvelous form, his heart pounding inside him, he smiled to the Death eater. Lucius smiled back, his reddened lips twisting into a lascivious grin and he walked quickly towards him, twisting something in his fingers. Without a word, he grabbed Severus' hand, taking the middle finger so he could slide something down it. Traces of blood covered his skin as the silver ring was put on, an onyx stone gracing the middle and then twisting into silver._

"_You like it?" , Lucius asked, his voice deep as he continued to breathe heavily, pleased by the sight of his lover wearing his victim's ring. Severus looked at it, then at Lucius, gripping his wrist tight under his fingers. It truly was a striking thing. As he left red marks on Lucius' pale skin, Severus' eyes betrayed nothing but lust._

_It had fast become a blur. They entered the Riddle house, welcomed by noise and cheering, laughter and moans, all covered by the taste of death and alcohol, magic intoxicated. They drained bottles, sharp liquid curing their thirst as they talked a bit with others, never leaving each other's sight. _

_As they finally left the crowd to disappear trough an empty hallway, they entered a secluded room, off limits to most of the guests. There was no light inside but candles laid out, somehow making it more glorious than the lustrous rest of the house. The light fell upon an exquisite face, the beauty of it more overwhelming than any other, revealing nothing, almost carved in marble, if it wasn't for consuming eyes, staring at them as they knelt on the floor. _

"_My children, rise.", said Lord Voldemort, a satisfied smile now directed towards them._

_Both of them rose, looking back at him, their pleasure at his praise self evident, amongst other things. Figures in dark apparels surrounded him, their faces hidden in faint light and covered by marks of skeleton skin, all but them unknown. Unlike the others, all except Bellatrix, they took their dark hoods down, their identities revealed to all that didn't understand the sacred act of plainly revealing your worship. There was a certain fearless power their naked faces exuded, their obvious delight in their position outweighing the dedication that had with it both submission and shame. Years later, Lucius would win his life back by revealing his face again under the petrified eyes of all that, like him, had fallen out of favor, taking his Lord's love yet again by a gesture so obvious, so profane and yet so telling, as simple as reminding one with your eyes in the darkness of all he had been for you and all he had continued to personify. It was a reminder of what had once been, a burning that Lucius could once display openly and one that never left him, becoming his cage until he once again looked upon the face of his savior, a deity more benevolent than others could even begin to comprehend, bringing out in him all that he was and making it holly, making it shine emerald under his presence and unmatched force, under the stillness of moonlight to which they sacrificed their talents, their uncontrolled surrender. He had always been perfectly aware that lord Voldemort knew all this, that it had been ever-present when they would come face to face with the Dark Lord. It had been that night, that brilliant night, when he had let them see it._

_Bellatrix looked bitterly at the two favorites. The only others ready to do the same as she, understanding instantly that they had defied the so close to solitary pleasure that she had felt with being the only, sharing something with him others could not. She had knelt at his feet, one arm grazing the detailed engravery on the wooden chair, feeling like a mistress to the throne, a lover to the ruler that refused to have a queen._

_She gave herself to no one but him, her marriage in truth standing as nothing but a shadow compared for what they shared. The same reason made her cringe at the entrance of the two, drunk from the bloodbath, their state being vulgarly obvious to anyone, much less the Dark Lord, who, to her horror, appeared to condone such behavior. More than simply condone, it had turned out as she watched him get up, unable to do anything but look blankly on, his long, intricate dark robes surrounding his impenetrable form, walking slowly towards the vicious couple. She could no longer look at him and remember his glorious presence in the night, whipping down those that tried to stop him, leading all of them on farther, no longer keep feeling an almost self-satisfied bliss at simply being so close to him but, in the twist of a moment, suddenly saw nothing more than the sight in front of her, nothing more than the, if she dared say it, insolent smile on his lips as he chose to turn and show it to others, giving it to them as he did. That certainly would have been enough. Had he done nothing more but walked close only to leave mere seconds later, Bellatrix would have been more than reminded that her position wasn't, would never be, singular. Had his eyes not turned to the hand of Severus Snape, dried blood still seeming to linger there, as he was careless enough not to wash it (though Bellatrix knew, understood deep inside, that that hadn't been the case), and, taking it in his own hands, his skin paler even than that of the Death Eater, his glance traveling from it to Severus and Lucius and then back again._

_«You've got a new ring, Severus.», he said, his voice somehow not sounding like the sentence itself, a rather trivial and uncharacteristically thing to say, something one wouldn't have paid attention to if it hadn't been said in that voice. His deep, silky voice filled was no louder than ever, maybe even a bit softer, displaying such significance and meaning, that, as soon as he had uttered them, Bellatrix was instantly deadly worried. It was certainly easier than accepting that his voice sounded pleased. Or maybe it was both._

_Severus knew better than to answer anything, aware, just as Lucius was that Lord Voldemort knew exactly how he had gotten it. Neither did nothing but looked back to the smiling face, knowing that, although no one else could possibly comprehend the conversation, nothing else was important._

_Lord Voldemort's long fingers entangled themselves with his own, his palm now on the front of Lord Voldemort's hand, only one jewel there. The gem of Salazar Slytherin. He looked at Lucius over Snape's shoulder, pulling his hand now in front of him, his other hand silently stroking the long ivory hair. With no more than a moment that consisted of nothing more than a look at the two dark faces, a look that met two pairs of brilliant dark eyes, Lucius pressed his lips against the onyx and the silver, against the gift he had taken in startling and overpowering brutality so the one he thought worthy of it could have it. He felt the slight taste of blood as he did so, only serving to excite him farther. His blue eyes looked up again, as did Severus', both facing their Lord, an intoxicated plea obvious in them. Voldemort did nothing but raise his hand, never tearing his eyes away from them, and said in voice perfectly clear and firm, yet just as cold;_

"_Leave us now, all of you."_

_The Death Eaters, more perplexed at the whole scene and being sent away than angered (though rare ones actually allowed themselves anger against him, certainly none showing it) complied with no words at all, one by one, hooded figures leaving the room._

_«You too, Bella. », Lord Voldemort added, the raven haired woman having stayed fixed in her place. He hadn't even looked at her, he had simply known. Without passing them a single glance, Bellatrix left the room furious._

_With a slight movement of his wand, the door was locked. They turned to him, his face marble white, immaculate in the soft light. Lord Voldemort stepped back, spreading his hands as if to cover the room. As his outstretched fingers moved trough the air, the circle of candles all burned down to their ends, the was now covered in scarlet fire. The bloody light surrounded them, the two Death eaters now inside a circle that, to an onlooker would have seemed almost sacramental. It was._

_They were in a ring of flames, its energy surrounding them. It was an ancient ritual, a sort of binding spell, used to make loyalty, love, devotion and marriage sacred. It could be used for each of those purposes and brought forth a connection in those in it, eternal, unbreakable after it was conceived. But it was meant to be such, either by blood or the body. Lucius' face flushed from the intensity of what was happening, the heat rising inside his body from the force of the spell, all of it somehow transfigured in the Dark Lord, fixed in the dark eyes of the man who was once Tom Riddle and then rose to be a god. It soared trough him, obliterating any nervousness he might have felt, taking him into it, the weight of wild bells he heard in the flames pressing on, almost too much to bear. He would either succumb to the clarity it held or die there, possibly breaking afterwards, slipping onto the floor as nothing but a body inspired by the lunacy of devoted surrender. He felt that close to losing himself, that ready for its perfection. His eyes searched for Severus as he felt his hands turning his face towards him. Not for a moment did he think on what they were doing, consider the possibility that it might be wrong. The taste of skin had never been that piercing. Both aware of themselves in a way that seemed almost inexplicable, their minds empty of thoughts, they felt each other's lips in a kiss that was desperately violent, a closeness that went beyond words, all of it covered with sounds so deafening, reverberating around them so strong it was almost silence. They undressed each other never breaking the kiss and sank to the floor, wrapped around each other, Severus' fingers digging into his skin as they did, their knees hitting the floor. It seemed that the pounding in their chests was reflected around them, the shattering force coming down on them. Lucius bit into his skin, almost tasting blood, their closeness his only link to reality that seemed to be crashing all around and inside him, deepening in them, the intensity of it making him shiver as he was pushed onto the floor. His moan seemed to break trough the air as he felt the raven haired man inside himself, almost bringing tears into his eyes. His legs circled him, their bodies glistening on the floor. Severus felt as if he would shatter into peaces, die inside his body, all the while never breaking away from the glistening darkened blue eyes that never left him as he thrust inside, his lips twisting as he did, moans escaping them. They surrender to all of it, taking it in with every inch of their body, desperate for each touch that seemed to ravage them whole._

_When it ended, Severus' head buried in his neck, Lucius looked around, the room spinning in front of him. He could feel himself falling on, sliding down somewhere, slowly drowning into a blackness that he could not discern. He could do nothing but watch it fill his sight, letting himself enter it. Later, he wouldn't be able to distinguish weather he had fainted there, still hanging on to the feeling of having his lover's weight on himself, or weather that had simply been sleep that came. He didn't remember the darkness, neither of them did, only their lack of resistance to it, the way it seemed to come naturally to them as if it was something they understood. Lord Voldemort had been there to watch them finally too exhausted to bare it any longer, slipping to sleep after what had happened. He watched the two bodies, bare and entangled, his by their own choice, his by their love. His children had given everything, their flesh and their souls. He let them sleep, slowly extinguishing the flames, leaving them there in silence like a true father would, his right to them undeniable and now, unbreakable._

_Hours later, a woman entered the room, careful not to make a sound. This had been the only order Lord Voldemort had ever given that she had disobeyed. He had told them that no one was to enter the chamber, finding it unnecessary to protect it with anything more than his words. For anyone else, that had been enough. She, on the other hand, needed more this time. She needed to know. She needed to understand._

_As soon as she entered, bringing light into the quiet room with her wand, she understood all too well. From that moment on, Bellatrix regretted ever going against his wishes. _

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Severus had been summoned, somewhere between first and second period, to Dumbledore's office. He had been briefed, he had been informed. He had been told that Lucius Malfoy was waiting in his rooms, asking his urgent attendance. Severus knew, had it been _business_, the Mark would have ached. The Dark Lord would have called. He would not, under any circumstances, send _him._ Severus had known, this was not the way you conducted things. Even the Dark Lord, even now, was more discreet.

Which meant…well, he knew exactly what it meant. And he could not, funny as it may sound, suppress excitement. Pleasure. The feeling of wonderful and dangerous the inevitable that you had so long awaited. He couldn't, not even to himself, have been able to explain just why and specifically how this made him feel as it did, ecstatic to the point of his face barely suppressing a smile, but he felt the very same sort of ecstasy invade his veins as he had that immortal, hell-sent night when Lucius had pushed that silver down his finger, the blood painting itself around the edges of the ring, beneath it and onto his skin, he felt in himself, the same sort of darkening furry he had those nights, he felt…As if reality had gained color yet again, and this color had meant death, had meant its clarity, its inevitable truth. Its coming. May the Dark Lord take him, Severus Snape had not felt so young in years.

Death. Their treasure, their paradise. Perfection. Power yet again at wtholding it in yourself. Whose death, this he didn't know. But it would come. In one form or another, if not both.

As he turned the key slowly, the stillness of the moment when he did betraying itself in no more than a muffled, barely noticeable sound, he closed his eyes for a second before entering.

"_Crucio!", _was all he heard before falling to his knees.

TBC….

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

**Did you like it? Not like it? Tell mommy…****:giggle:**


	5. White lightning

Author's note: I apologize for it taking so long for me to post the new chapter-it isn't that I haven't been writing, but that I have, and my time has been stretched between exams, a few out-of-town and out-of-mind trips and all my writing so this project unfortunately took so long to post. On the up side, the next chapter not only awaits but is half written. I hope this chapter pleases you. R&R and you'll get…more Lucius and Snape, young and in the snow and blinding sun. Yes, I'm babbling (though, not incoherently, I hope), so on to the fic.;)

One more thing though. One reviewer called my Lucius and Snape very cannon, which I am very grateful for (as I am for all the reviews, naturally, and hope they endure), but unfortunately am forced by the appearance of "The Deathly Hallows" to address. While it is true that my fiction takes place somewhere during the fifth year (thus, before quite a few things mentioned or written in the book have happened), I find myself obliged to comment on the development of the characters this piece revolves around. I plan to, in truth, ignore it completely, and find it necessary to say I will do so so none of my readers will expect a very moral-like Snape or a very…whatever he was like Lucius. Not to mention Draco. Or, to putt it bluntly, an utterly daft and disappointing Voldemort. None of the above will happen in this fiction, nor will be taken as fact, not only because the seventh book has greatly displeased me, but because I believe all the above to be…well, sort of written in bad taste, and surely simplified to a level undeserving of the aforementioned characters. In short, I find Severus Snape far more interesting and far more complicated than his portrayal in the seventh book- in order not to spoil anything for anyone who has not yet read the seventh book I shall say only this; be it any man, woman or, giggle, child, be it one person he loved beyond any, that person neither could nor would create or define the Severus Snape the six books preceding the last have created. Move him, yes. Change him, make him go to any imaginable length, yes. But not create fifteen years of his life, nor the years preceding it, in one way or another. I believe better of Snape. I view him as an actual person of many levels, and plan to continue writing him as such. And for anyone who disagrees, I hope that person will not be offended by this belief. I also believe better of Lucius, Voldemort (in terms of intelligence) and, even, Draco. So, my vision of these characters is left unaltered. Whether you, the reader, still agrees with me or not, is surely for you to decide.:) Now, onto the fic.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

_And the sun, the mindless sun, the sun appeared blind to him at what unfolded beneath it. For the first time in years, nineteen wasted years, Severus Snape felt as if he had nothing to fear. Rays of light, the curtains of dawn rising, made him glisten, pale, unhealthy, happy for the first time in his miserable existence, satisfied at what he was seeing, the announcement of a new day, holy, a holiness others could neither foresee or comprehend, a holiness seeping trough the sky. His left hand ached, the skin on it throbbing, crimson as if cut trough with a knife and not branded with a wand, a wand with the feathers of a phoenix, he felt as if walking trough the city, as if walking trough slow streets that appeared just to have been woken up, was the most glorious thing he could have envisioned himself doing, walking, his black robes swaying around him, walking exhaustedly towards his house, for the first time in place, for the first time, his unhealthy face beaming madly so as to nearly frighten all passerby's, a boy, no, a man, already, no, _finally_ acquainted with the person he was meant to become, had always been, but had never, until this glorious dawn, allowed himself to recognize. It wasn't until he passed the corner he had needed to take if he was truly going home that it had become clear to him that he wouldn't stop walking, couldn't stop himself from harvesting every slight second of being awake now, new blood, pure, cursing trough his veins._

_All your years forgotten, you shall follow me._

_A man with such beauty, he had forgotten any other. A figure of such magnificence, he had wanted to kneel. There had never been eyes, until these. There had never been such grace. There had never been such merciless, unhinged power he had even dared dream playing witness to. There had never been a voice, a voice so apt at penetrating his memories, simply with words, a voice so apt at unveiling him. There had never been hands, hands holding a wand that appeared to him fragile under the ferocity that coursed trough it, there had never been hands he had been so grateful had touched his face. There had never been a pain dearer to him than the one his hand now felt, burning itself still into his veins so miraculously that he could imagine it never fading, never leaving him and he was thankful. There had never, in all he had witnessed, in all he had read, been a will so all consuming as to take him, as to touch him, as to make him worship. There had never been such power. Oh, but there would be. His own. Severus Snape, for the first time in his life, knew he would make sure of it._

_He thought, for the first few effortless miles that passed beneath his feet apparently unnoticed, that he would never stop making himself relive it, that he would never be able to stop recalling details, how the sharp edge of the wand felt on gentle skin, a black tint so reminiscent of ink but smelling of magic beginning to appear inside it, not _on_ his skin but beneath it, he thought he could not stop himself from imagining the blood flowing into it and turning its colour, he thought he would never be able to keep from remembering, his own voice for the first time appearing to him musical, as he said yes, yes to all that was offered, yes to the last wisp of pain he would ever have himself feel. Let the masks play on, he would not need them, he would not want them. He could look the Dark Lord in the face and bare his smile. Tom Riddle knew exactly who he was marking, making him shed a name he had never had any use for to transform, in his eyes, in the only world that mattered, into The Half Blood Prince. Many had had to look for him, for Lord Voldemort was not an easy man to find. Severus Snape, on the other hand, had been recruited. He had been watched, seven years had seen him appear a bitter, battered, lonely child of such great talent, Lord Voldemort knew what potential he was given the possibility to make use of. Pain, like the making of the mark, is necessary. Is welcome. Is yours. There is a yearning, ready to burn itself into your insides, into your soul until you see; forgiveness is the only thing you cannot and more importantly, will not afford yourself._

_There is a death that each of us must face. Severus Snape had thought, for more than those miles, for more than those hours he walked, walked and did not think, he believed he would never be able to stop himself remembering. A flash of light, his heart bursting, his blood thumping, his mind filled with such monumental silence that he could only see fit to describe it as transcendence, the tears sliding down his face, all but unnoniticed by him, all but expected, heatedly covering his cheeks and then his lips, his hand held firmly in place, not even shaking slightly as he had expected it would. Finally, his hand returning slowly to his side, the wand still firmly, lovingly, breathlessly grasped by his fingers, such shrill laughter filled the silence of the room and then his mind, though he himself felt oblivious to it, that it sounded as if mirrored by an echo, mirrored by the air itself, spoken by the very green lightning that had come trough it and into the stomach of the woman who lay dead beneath him. He laughed, Severus could feel himself gasping for air at his own laughter, incoherent rage at not having known that this, all of this, lay inside him. Voldemort eyed him and slowly, gently, his hand moving as if a lover's gesture, he turned the wet face of Severus Snape to himself, the fingers moving in his tears until they came to Snape's mouth, and finally, the laugher stopped the smile unphazed. Shinning still, but concentrated, his eyes were now fixed on the Dark Lord, and Tom Riddle knew, this entrancement, this laughter, this blur that had for the first time invaded, then cleared the man's mind of all measure, of all undesired whispers that had so long been prone to invading it, all doubt that had made him feel as if this moment, and Riddle knew, this moment would be the one in which he dies, all of the wet marks that still shone on his face, were not of guilt, were not of fear, were not of pain, were not of madness even, but of joy. A joy Severus Snape could not imagine making himself experience. The muggle lay dirty at his feet, her legs cut by the gashes of his Sectumsempra, her limbs twisted by the Crutiatus, and finally, two slowly said words that extinguished her life. Two words for a girl who had never even known them, barely eighteen, two words for a blond now bearing the features of a doll, a puppet thrown back by a displeased child, an unwanted gift welcomed now only by the ground on which he stood. Two words that had saved his life. _

_Lord Voldemort understood. It had taken him barely a few weeks to make this happen. Barely a few hours to make him kill her. Barely a few moments to make him love it. Barely a moment of fingertips against his lips to make Severus, a gesture of such profound acceptance that the Dark Lord knew better than to think it taking excessive liberty, barely a few seconds until he grasped his hands, making certain that his fingers stay still as Snape licked his own tears off of them, the taste, funnily in fact, resembling that of blood, that of arousal, that of the reminiscence of the end itself. Gently, he let go off the Dark Lords hand when he was done, as if having performed the greatest act of respect and custom and, without needing to be told a word, kneeled never breaking his glance away. Gently again, his arm was taken by long fingers meant to cover it, long fingers receiving no resistance as they turned it palm up, slowly slipping over it and then off, to his wand so as to perform the last and final act needed to ensure devotion. And all the while, Severus Snape never closed his eyes. All the while, still concentrated on him, his dark eyes still shinning, Tom Riddle knew, not a tear would cross them. Not a moment of the snake rising inside, sliding out of the mouth of scull and wrapping itself down his arms length, not a moment would Severus Snape shudder. Not a moment would Severus Snape doubt. This, this is what it had been like for him, the initiation into a state where one was, above all things, blessed with clarity. For it wasn't lunacy that moved this man to laugh, it was an ice like calm that destroyed, in one ecstatic surge all that he had thought he would become. For this was not the boy who had been teased at school. This was not a boy who could be laughed at. This was not a child, tortured, and scared, and ridiculed throughout all his life, but a man. And this, this was the day he was born. _

&&&&&&&&&&

His body was shot trough by a bolt of pain that, regardless of him not being a novice to the Crutiatus curse, resembled no other. And it wasn't merely pain, not like bearing an open and vicious wound, but as if every single part of his body, each inch of his skin and muscle, his heart, his brain, his eyes, his mouth, was trying to battle each other out in eager vengeance for supremacy, a feeling shifting from overpowering numbness to stellar awareness, a state so close to death, or how he had imagined it, but not _quite _so.

There – in front of him – after years of silent bitterness and restraint – stood the real Lucius Malfoy. This was the same wizard Snape had so hopelessly fallen in love with fifteen years ago, or more – yes, this was the two of them, young again, unafraid of using curses which meant a sure holiday in Azkaban to anyone as foolish (or as brave) to utter them these days. He was, above all excluding Bellatrix Black and the Dark Lord, the most impassioned of the curse's admirers all trough their early days as Death Eaters, some fifteen years back. It possessed an uncanny allure, one of clearing your mind so instantaneously that you might have just as well imagined yourself a vessel for the curse itself, as if something, something else, other than you and grander than you, was flowing freely trough your veins, your wand, and then onto the other person, withering as he watched you grow. No, Lucius Malfoy was not an admirer. He loved and nurtured the craft with such brilliant percision that in manner of but a few minutes he could have had most anyone not only begging for death, but staring at him blankly, or raving, either way too enraptured by it to do anything but, to say a few words even, sometimes to scream, such was his skill. The last thing Severus had known himself feel, the last breath of his own he could still attach to reality, was the thumb of his knees against the stone, and the lonely thought that he only heard its numb sound, but did not recognize its impact, so overcome by the curse that he couldn't even feel it. In a haze, what little made his eyes close, what more moments made them open for the overcoming colors his brain had created in pointless defense were a sure path to insanity, he could still remember that, he could feel himself, most probably, still in place there, on his knees, quivering, moaning raggedly at its force, deep hisses of something beyond mere hurt escaping his throat, barely audible but nonetheless registered by the one who stood above him, wand still pointed, drawing dangerously near his head. Severus knew, once the tip of that wand reached his forehead, he was as good as dead. Many times, that was how Lucius had finished a victim off, making the torture curse spread directly from the mind, causing it to wage an impulsive war on itself, attack its very existence, attack, and lose. His vision blurred and the dark color of the wand spread itself in front of his eyes, cutting trough them, as if a serpent itself had entered him, its might twenty fold, first trough his pupils and then onto every other part of him. It is true, Lucius Malfoy was very angry.

Anyone even near reason would have seen that more than a few minutes was an act of lunacy when performed on one you didn't necessarily want to kill but, his own mind both oblivious and undecided when it came to the particular matter of this man's life, he showed no sign of backing off, even for a moment, but simply took another few steps more, nearing his victim, a man who's dark robes now shook evenly with the rest of his flesh. _No, stop it, _Snape thought. But one could not repel the Crutiatus. Certainly not when it came from the blond eying him calmly, grey eyes blank, his lips unmoving and yet, his face observant, observant to the point of hypnotic surrender to what he was faced with, the pale skin growing ghastly shades more so until it became near transparent. Seeing this as one would a sign of warning, a final alarm that perhaps he had gone too far, Lucius Malfoy stopped.

There were many charms the Unforgivables offered. One of the most prominent was beauty, undecipherable and indescribable, both inside the one that had performed them, a feeling unlike any other, and on the victims. It seemed, for those slow, wondrous moments, that you were creating a being at your will, changing a person to suit you, modeling their body and mind to suit your demands, your wishes for their appearance under your watchful eyes, your desires for their very existence. That was one of the reasons that, once one was first performed, a person would most probably either never even consider repeating it, or never spare a thought as to not doing so. He remembered, sometimes, the first one he had ever allowed himself. He remembered how, in an admiration much like that of one uninitiated, that of one uninformed of the subject matter itself, much less the chain of events that he himself had controlled, he knelt down at the still breathing corpse of his first victim, starring in amazement at it, touching it as one would an object of odd beauty he had never encountered. This is mine, he could remember thinking, perhaps the only real thought present in him at the time. This is mine. My doing, my body, my life. For each time, you gained another, and another, and screams are just numbers, moments, screams are just shells of what you will do next, and screams can make you laugh, for music invades the night, music invades your ears and the gashes of blood, they are merely well placed decoration. Charms, such charms that lay in the night. Such charms that never leave you.

Even now, his anger beyond appeal, for a second he found himself starring, wondering for a moment, ironically, why he had not done this before. If such possession could even stand comparison to the pleasures of sex, to the fleeting moments one felt then, wondering if he had ever had Severus, and thus anyone, in a more gorgeous position, shaking on their knees, eyes upturned, the whites glistening redishly as the curse continued, the moans that escaped his mouth more wonderful, perhaps, than any he had ever used a different way to create. Then, though he thought he was surely beyond such petty, disgusting self deprivation, he could hear his own answer, the clear words echoing themselves in his head, making him involuntarily strike harder at hearing them. Because possession was too simple, a sneering voice said, because you didn't want it. Because you wanted permission, and you wanted to give it. Because you cannot posses while giving yourself over, you cannot own if your yourself are defenceless. Because he didn't want pain, or not only that.

A sudden silence appeared as he stopped the spell, his leather boot propped on Snape's shoulder so as to steady him from falling over, for he knew, more than a few moments would be needed for him to truly recover his thoughts. Slowly, Lucius could feel the shaking cease under it, the shoulder now slightly limp, but not powerless, the eyes closed so as to remember themselves yet again, he saw the fingers twitching an escape away from numbness. As he did, he moved his leg away, only to have it seconds later brutally reconnected with Snape's face, sending it bloodied to the floor, the Potion Master's head hitting against it with such horrible a thud of bone and rock, it appeared to him worse than the blow itself had been.

„You will never touch my son again.", he said in a voice that surprised him, not nearly as curt and even as it was meant to sound, but louder, ragged and torn, something mutating a whisper with a growl.

And yet, his victim no less beautiful than the first one, more so perhaps by deceit, by a power that exceeded the physical, by understanding of what this curse meant, what a confession it had (albeit unknowingly) been, Lucius witnessed himself kneel. He watched his victim, expectant of what his appearance, his eyes, had to tell him.

Only Severus, Severus was not looking at him. Snape was elsewhere, a place he himself had granted him entrance to. He wondered, almost instinctively, what this place was. Where he had put him. What, or where from the voice that said his name, slowly, a broken voice of beauty, what it was that name now meant when all it held was shattered. What distinction of it against the air made that conniving, traitorous bastard say it. He must have understood. After all, he had called him here, he must have… Expected this. Wanted this. Wished for it. Either that, or he had thought nothing of it and the name bared neither distinction nor weight, neither harm nor passion, but was a causality, as he himself now felt, near obliterated by the very curse he made himself use.

The lightning bolt was gone and it cleared all of him. Now, clarity had become but the equivalent of emptiness, his newfound knowledge of his son unaltered, and he could not forget, nor could he have even dreamt that this, the last unveiling of the only remaining part of him left had avenged it. His son was a whore to the man he had loved, the man still twitching vulgarly at his feet from the effects of the curse that slowly faded. What now?

What, when there was nothing to lose, and nothing of himself left to change, to better? What now? When this man was not defenseless as he seemed but had won, his past and his present, had taken it whole? The Crucio curse was directed at Snape, but he had wished to feel a bit of it himself. For as his wrath ebbed and bits of reason came sneaking into the older Malfoy again, he could not help feeling an even higher form of twisted respect for him, as perverse as that might have been. Only, Severus, the Severus he had spent years adoring, the Severus he could never stop respecting-he was not here, he said nothing, nothing but his wretched name. Laying there, tortured, he said nothing. All he could hear was the sound re-entrance of his own voice into his head, a voice that now left him nauseous with spite for he could not bare hearing it anymore, the abandoned silence and nothing, nothing but his own, his own voice…What now? What was he, maimed beyond recognition, playing to become himself again? An equation of sorts, your life, he could just hear Snape saying. Hadn't it already ended itself? A rise, a fall, a rise, and now this? Now a betrayal unguarded by magic, unmatched by its charms. Now this, down on his knees, staring blankly at a man who bleeds, feeling at the same time intoxicated and a nonentity. Now this, feeling time was lost and letting it slip, second by second, trough his fingers like sand. Wether beyond or beneath words, he did not have them.

„Lucius…."

Not now, not anymore. He had given Snape up on Draco's behalf, and finally, he had been paid back and with such style that, had it been anyone but himself, Lucius would have smirked in recognition, toasted his appreciation. Now, on the other hand, the only two people he had ever loved... they were elsewhere, _they_ didn't need him. Knew of him, yet did it anyway. Was it hate or simply spite that made Snape do so? Love or desire for Draco? And Merlin, why was he crouched down, his mouth shaking, his hands covered in his former lover's blood, flooding from a severed lip and broken nose to his fingers. He couldn't say it, that at least was certain. Rationally, if such objection had still existed, he knew that asking why would have made not a difference, but perhaps, could have explained. He knew, also, he had crossed the line of such objection, the line where it was still relevant why exactly they had not cared enough to stop themselves, whatever they had truly wanted, that line had been crossed when they didn't do so. The sphere of explanation, motive, cause and reason, perhaps not of emotion, was propelled into nothingness the moment he raised his wand. And yet, he still stood, or rather, knelt. However be it, he was still breathing and it was no less nonexistent what he knew. Why… The bloodied, disgraceful figure, he, he was also still breathing, his blood, his blood again on his fingers. Why… What did it matter? It was enough.

He couldn't kill him, he knew this. He knew, there would be no doubt as to who did it, all would know it was him. Even Draco, flesh and blood, body and soul and the greatest utter and complete disappointment he had ever suffered, the wretched brat that deserved not a thing he was given, even he would know. And yet… His bloody hands tightened without thought around his neck, and he watched with all attentiveness the heaving attempts for breath. His hands crushed on his throat, Snape's eyes opened in a moment and a horrible gurgling sound followed the helpless struggle for breath, slowing, desperately, as Lucius felt the maddening pulse somewhere beneath his forefinger. Suddenly, seemingly all his energy returned in the moment his eyes flew open, Snape's hands shot up, slapping his face, leaving bruises, Lucius was sure, pulling his ivory locks and still he did not falter. Finally, his hands were on the floor and, as his body writhed beneath him, Lucius hadn't noticed his right arm frantically reaching for something.

In an instant, as his body was already beginning to slow, a sharp pain tore open the skin on his chest and Lucius fell back. As Snape moved limply away, coughing mixed with breaths of inhuman depth, his entire body still shaking even more violently, his mouth filled with nothing but his own blood, Lucius saw there was a long and bleeding wound stemming from his collar bone near to his left nipple. The thin gash a product of what was doubtlessly a cried out Sectumsempra he was surely too insane to hear. It was impossible the spell had been silent, for Snape had then been much too weak to perform it in such a way. Come to think of it, he still was, and looked it. Still, Lucius hadn't moved, simply stared blankly at the spreading stain on his torn shirt and managed to perceive that, for all irony, Snape had used his own wand to do it, his having fallen out of arm's reach somewhere in the duration of the torture curse. His chest was aching, bleeding wildly and Severus, Severus had his wand. _Jolly_, he noted dully inside his mind. Not for a moment did he think that the fact that he was now coughing out blood would stop the Potion's Master from cursing him if he reached for it.

„Give me my wand.", he said with a voice now almost toneless, its sound utterly unrecognizable, even to himself. He sounded exactly like he felt. Drained, lifeless and deteriorating.

„Why, so we can…", Snape tried to calm his own breaths enough to answer him, enough so he could taste anything but his wretched own crimson on his tongue and teeth, the very taste of it causing his stomach to convulse if for nothing else. He wanted to say something along the lines of „Continue such charming interaction" or something equally clever. But, its quite hard to sound unphazed when your entire beaten organism is trying to bleed itself dry trough your mouth. And nose, let us not forget that. It's hard to make it appear anything but grotesque, much less effortless. Still, he considered it a feat to even be this alive. Now, he knew, that was an accomplishment.

„Snape. Give. Me. My. Wand."

Snape did not move, did not look at him but, for good measure, clutched the wand tight. Lucius got up and went for Snapes, curses be damned. No surprise there, as soon as his hand tightened around it an expected Expelliarmus knocked it out of his reach.

„I'm bleeding!", he yelled out without thinking, causing of all things, Severus to smile, his reddened lips, broken nose, blood smeared face and blue-bruised neck making for quite a picture as he looked up, looked up and laughed.

„You...", his throat croaked out a sound near-frightening, blood again reappearing, „always were a-„ he steadied himself, swallowing it in with all his willpower concentrated on the goal of having to finish his sentence „spoiled...", he spat it out on the stone blocks of the floor „brat." he answered, the blood again filling up his mouth, causing him to nearly choke on it as he laughed, looked at the older man's chest now half soaked in crimson. He was sure it looked a lot worse than it was. Could have done more damage, had he not almost been strangled senseless. Finally, he could calm himself for long enough to use the same wand so as to fix his own nose.

„I would think", he said now that he could breathe more calmly, „You would suck it up even if you were nauseated to the point of fainting. Malfoy manners and such…"

He said nothing, his head spinning from the sudden lack of blood, reaching for Snape's wand no matter what it meant, healing himself when he realized Snape either hadn't cared or had not even noticed, was perhaps looking trough him the entire time. And it wasn't that he hadn't noticed. It wasn't that he hadn't cared. It was that the step he tried to make while standing up was too much, and brought him down in no more than an imperceptible second, down on all fours, his vision suddenly crowded with blackness, heart pounding, his body trembling as a damp, cold sweat suddenly became all he could discern as feeling in himself. Closing his eyes, fighting against the very exhaustion he felt was the only thing he was not numb to, sleep or pure nothingness as the only thing he was able to want, he whispered as defense, mumbled as precaution with all his might „I could still kill you."

And Lucius Malfoy, his back leaning on the wall, hand propped on the cupboard so as to steady himself, paler than ever, felt his own eyes close, the humming in his ears beginning to soften while the still vicious pain in his chest was no less persistent. The spinning sensation making it impossible to simply look straight ahead was not gone, and his fingers pressed themselves to his head as heard himself answer in that same, unknown voice:

„You've done enough."

With that, finally, he slid to the floor, conscious only of his own attempt at not throwing up. Slowly, so slowly, Snape crawled to where he sat until they were a mere arms length apart.

„Are you finally sorry you didn't kill me that day?"

His eyes shot up, bewildered almost to the state of innocence.

„I…" wish to Merlin I had let you die. But it was unnecessary to say it. Snape knew. This was, perhaps, the why. This was it. All of it. All that was left of them. Ironically enough, both of them. What they had shared... Repulsive, what was left in them, bared down, to this. Never had his memories been clearer to him, never had the very taste of it all attacked with such force. He could almost taste the iron in Snape's severed lip, as if he had bit it with his own teeth, and he felt sick from the taste of it on his tongue... More ill than he had in years, all his flesh reverberating with the knowledge of it. That night, he could have killed him... The beginning, the unconscious decision to let it unfold, to make it what it was, even though he hadn't understood then, the trial of pure instinct in the wilderness they had entered when, more than fifteen years younger, Lucius had raised his wand in battle, Snape's eyes tearing into him as they did now, finally looking at him, recognizing, again, the same appearance of instinct uncontained in Lucius. Exactly what he had been waiting for. In an instant, without a word, the older man saw it, realized all he had done...Had been what Snape had wanted. Had he managed to kill him...No hard feelings. Fucking his son, driving him crazy... It was worth it. He had known him long enough, well enough to be sure. He got up, suddenly finding the strength to, and rummaged trough his pocket for something. Finally, he could feel the ring against his skin and took it out, planning, as the only thing he could truly imagine himself doing, to throw it in Snape's damaged face. He was greeted with the glistening end of his own wand pointed at him and he took the snake, stunned out of his anger, his fingers clutching its jaw tightly, momentarily reminded that in what he had found himself feeling, he had managed to forget about it, was about to leave without it.

They stared at each other, beaten and broken, their faces unreadable. Then, when he heard the soft clink of the silver meeting stone, Lucius left without a goodbye. Saying nothing, Snape waited until the door slid slowly closed and then picked it up, examining the bloodied form, the now broken onyx in its centre. Lucius himself must have shattered it, and most probably on purpose.

Silently and without a word, once again, Severus put it on.

_TBC……………………………_


	6. Extreme Ways

With black holes in your perception of our wintertime bed, my breath would pierce you still, cold, impenetrable though you are, with snowflakes that crowd how your eyes used to shine in our moments of thunder, midnights of glory. I remember, I remember a bed of blood, the frozen surface of crimson stone. Your eyelids flutter, damasked in our moonstone of desire, our highs of perpetual flame. And I remember, remember the winter…

&&&&&&&&&&

_He could feel it, the expectant rush rising within him, the taste in his mouth that waiting but being able to imagine propelled, the sure concentration they both paid to the empty alley being a certain sign that, soon… A shape finally stirred down it, a man with a big black dog walking slowly at his feet, oblivious of the two hooded figures that leered at them from afar. Nothing out of the ordinary, or so it would appear - they, of course, knew better._

„_Incendio!", a man though and, suddenly, as if in a wave, all the parked cars in the vicinity of the man and his dog went up in a line of flames, the street lighting itself up with screams that foreshadowed certain hell. Instantaneously, the two hooded men heard, amidst the muggle yells that emitted themselves from near-by buildings at the explosion, a Protego charm was shouted, a blue and glistening shield sweeping the man and dog out of harm's way._

„_Subtle, Lucius.", one of the two said with a slight smile, watching the street suddenly come deliciously alive as the tenants began with a startling speed and horror to comprehend that the fire was in fact there and posed a truly prominent danger as it was but a short distance away from their flats. The rising volume of their cried caused Lucius to laugh slightly, turning to the other man._

„_I always hated those muggle devices.", the smirking lips replied and Severus burst out laughing, an occasion no less rare in these times of youth and lack of mercy._

„_I believe you've made that abundantly clear tonight."_

_Disappearances, or so the papers said, was how it had started. A little havoc along the way never hurt._

„_Snivellus!", the dog-turned-man exclaimed as he got up, dusting his clothes off from dirt and ashes, „Come out and fight me like a man!"_

_Sirius Black was smiling. He never would have admitted it, but James knew an incendiary eve was just what he had longed for._

„_Naturally, Black. Glad to see you're not on all fours for once, Potter must be surprised.", he answered, the firelight to witness his hood being drawn down, his wand raised. He shot a smile at the ivory haired youth next to him, his own weapon raised at the exact same height. They mirrored each other perfectly in poise, only the white locks so apparently painted by the spreading flames betraying their lack of similarity from afar._

„_Spare no expense.", he whispered and, simultaneously, two bolts of green light swept the street._

_The Marauders, just as quick, matched them with a Stupefy to mirror and, to the disbelief of nearby muggles, red met green, shot trough the already swallowing fire, all with terrifying force._

„_How very Gryffindor, Potter. How about we take off the gloves?", Lucius purred to the short haired boy, „Not yet taught the Unforgivables, is it? Or are you worried that mudblood wife of yours will hear you, as was eloquently stated, fought like a man?"_

„_I'll kill you!", James answered, reacting against his own better judgment at the insult directed at Lilly and not at himself, and he ran towards him, oblivious to his best friend yelling out his name as he did so._

„_James, no!", Sirius tried, rushing after him, desperate to get trough to him somehow, knowing, when it came to the red haired girl, James was beyond all reason. He himself had no problem finishing the pureblood bastard, or both of them for that matter, would be pleased to do so even, but he believed Prongs better than that, better than letting such rage split his soul. He wanted no more than to fight, but certainly not at that price._

_He saw him begin a wordless duel with Lucius, then consented to do the same with Snape as the little twat was certain to use even a second's lack of concentration to his own advantage. It was an echoing sound of sticking depth that brought all four men out of the separate world only they then inhabited, one that now had so little to do with ideology and so much with either years of hatred or, when it came to Lucius, his ever so prominent inability to stomach loudmouth, badly bred brats._

_On the other side of the street, a woman stared in bone chilling horror at them as a runaway curse had accidentally managed to stun her husband to the ground. Standing next to her was a crying eight year old girl, brown hair lapping around her weeping, frightened face._

_As soon as he saw it, James knew to look right back at Snape and, recognizing the look in his eyes for what it was just a moment after Lucius did, James turned to his fellow Marauder, trying to warn him of it while blocking Malfoy's curse at the same time._

„_Sirius, the girl!", he yelled, but before the other had even heard him, light pierced trough the black smoke which covered the night and ended it._

_As Sirius turned to the direction it had gone to, too stunned to comprehend that, had he not been so ready to go back to the duel he could have stopped it, Severus said with a voice sickeningly pleased with itself, more for dramatic effect than anything else;_

„_You know, I always did hate children."_

_This time, it was Lucius who burst out laughing. As both James and Sirius turned their attention to the wife and husband, contemplating how they would have to save the tenants as well, panic swiftly finding itself more than present inside them, for a second, Lucius and Severus did not care for their presence._

„_Morsmordre__!"_

_Having collected himself from his laughter, Lucius pointed his wand towards the sky and instantly, trough the black smoke of the flames and the darkness it unveiled, a skull could be seen as it opened its mouth, the night now bathing in a different sort of light, an omen it, like so many nights these past few years, had been taken by them._

_And thus, the serpent rose._

Life and death, both of them, theirs.

When Lord Voldemort had entered their lives, he had made them a promise, a promise he had never once, until his untimely disappearance, broken.

_Standing above them, he had spoken slowly, looking down at them all, the small circle he considered worthy of hearing these words, handpicked by him between the greatest young talents that the lair of snakes had to offer, already branded with the mark, their eyes unmoving from his form._

_Lucius felt that, underneath the weight of their gaze, the beauty he possessed only seemed to magnify itself. As ever, years before his appearance had changed to match it, The Dark Lord appeared otherworldly, as if Salazar Slytherin himself was in their midst's, risen again. It appeared to him that there wasn't a future at all, that nothing, truly nothing could follow the things he found he experienced now, all of their goals as if accomplished by the sheer intensity of experience they were now given. As if…and may he be damned, years later, he would still carry this belief, hold to it in desperation until their Lord had risen again, as if nothing, truly, nothing had existed before they themselves had and Salazar Slytherin and the other four founders were just myth and fables, all the great wizards just tales to precede the coming of himself and the privileged few, the coming of Lord Voldemort._

„_My children, you have been chosen to conquer death, end its existence. Under my rule, you, the ones blessed with the mark I have given…You shall feed upon it."_

_&&&&&&&&&&&&&&_

The ashtray was filled nearly to the top and, as he extinguished another of those expensive, imported cigarettes of his, Lucius saw that it's white end was instantly covered with grey matter, as were his fingers. He dusted it off, marveling at how their pallor was now tainted with a slight, barely visible layer of dirt, and soundlessly his own rush of emotion again filled the room, watching as it instantly transformed from the rich and well-furnished comfort of a lounge to simply a mass of insipid, unclear whispers that appeared to collide both with the walls, its spotless interior, and himself, watching it trough the veil of smoke that surrounded him, watching it, sitting there, sickened by it all to the point of both being unable to keep still, or to move.

The Malfoy country resort, lodging in the South of Britain amidst nothing but a few nearby houses that, collected, had the audacity to proclaim themselves a small muggle village, some pastures and meadows going on out of the eyes reach and what he could only imagine was an end forcibly placed by the sea, was a place where he went solely when Narcissa expressed a strange longing for „fresh air and peace" every so often as she believed the calm would do well for their son (but, instead, bored him to his wits end) and when he felt he needed, for a day or three at the most, to be so thoroughly separated from all the rest of the world that he could, in all but the darkest, most realistic and ever-soaring corners of his mind, almost forget it existed at all. So, every couple of years, he went back here, not even pretending to examine his belongings, staying in a house with no more than ten rooms, two floors and a small but well stacked library, and spent his time with nothing but fine wine and books, conscious of nothing but its taste tingling its way down his throat and the written word, forgetting, as he rarely felt he needed to do, he was anything but a man that could do this; look out the window and appreciate the horrid weather, look at himself in the mirror and admire the passing of years. This was the first of many houses he had inherited, the first of an uncountable list of possessions, and at a young age took full advantage of it, seventh year at Hogwarts and sixteen, he planned out a Slytherin house party, all and everyone invited, from the first year to the last, to be retold for years. Later, when school had finished and he was already a year of age, he first realized the human need to sometimes be willingly alienated from your peers was sometimes so prominent within him, though only recently acknowledged, that he regretted telling anyone about the house at all. The only person he had ever brought there since besides his family was, naturally, Severus, as then he didn't feel the younger man's presence an intrusion into his soul, or, at least, didn't mind it. By Godric's sword, he even liked it. Years had passed since those days. Years had passed since hours were spent sprawled on the floor in the library, swooning over Latin texts of forgotten magic, the dark-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the floor while he lounged on it, both enamored with whatever they were examining at that time, their post-Hogwarts study sessions when a different kind of teacher had entered their life.

„_I think…", Severus said quietly, still managing to break Lucius violently away from his own trancelike state, his book on the wooden floor, his long white hair falling on it against all effort to keep it neatly behind his ears and on his back as he read, searching the books for whatever Tom Riddle required now, whatever knowledge he considered important enough to be brought to him by them, vital to their further education under his hands and still yet more so to himself._

_He knew, these teachings, whether this, as they jokingly called it, extracurricular work for him or the hours of learning forbidden magic in his presence, were of no small importance to his cause. The initiated, the small group of those young enough both to expand their talents and believe them of great importance under his hand, they were to play an indispensable role in his rise to power, more important even than political machinations and what would latter be known as the „Separations of blood". It was the inner circle, the inner circle of those willing to believe and even more willing to fight that would either support and uphold these machinations with their skill, and sometimes, with their golden coins, or would prove to be a danger latter on when Tom knew he could not afford one. These children, these children of the darkest whispers the night had to offer, these children would latter, albeit they didn't know it yet, have the power either to uphold or ruin him. Thus, it was of utmost and unparalleled relevance that he treat them, and mould them, flawlessly. Every talent these children held inside themselves, every stolen hope, every aim, each tinny glimmer of desire, all of it- _he_ had to master, had to develop and urge them to claim under his patronage so as to do so himself, so as to be sure that, when the time came, it was not only in the battle field but outside it that they would not disappoint him. _

_There had to be no inner strife inside his circles, only in between its levels of favor, and only strife that he himself had helped cause so as to play upon it, or it would jeopardize everything. They were cunning, and the cunning needed to know their place. Or not know it. Needed to exceed it, rise above it but still, as they did so, they needed to be grateful to him who had allowed them to do so. He would make their lives outshine their wildest of fantasies and he would ensure, with perfect precision and flawless grace, that they be well aware just who made it all happen._

„_I think this is what he sent us looking for.", Severus said, holding out the ancient book for him to see, a finger on it so as to show Lucius the exact sentence he believed was what the Dark Lord had in mind when saying he needed the proper elements of phrasing so as to enhance the spell of Dreams. In legend, it was known to them as this, and survived (or this was what people were led to believe), only in storytelling ever since the sixteenth century. What it did, why it was so rarely used when it proved tragic to the last that performed it, was to make a persons dreams, the ones they had in that moment been so carelessly having in the comforts of their bed, turn corporeal and thus, possibly fatally damaging. It seemed quite ironic to them that the same spell was conceived by an ill-fated lover, one brought forcefully too far from his mistress and had thus been thought of as a way for them still to communicate. Naturally, it did not take long for those of less benevolent intention to see that the spell might be used for different purposes. Thus, what Lord Voldemort wanted of them now, was not a way into another's dreams, for he was a Legiliment of such skill that he did not need one, but a way of expanding the spell onto others-much in the manner of a „two birds with one stone" philosophy, though possible, and this was the ideas grand allure, possible only with those that withhold emotional relevance with the dreamer. It was quite ingenious, Severus and Lucius both agreed, knowing full well the advantage of not needing to look for someone, person by person to finish them off, or putt under the Imperius, or hunt for information, but bringing them all forcibly together at the same time, making it thus not only more practical, but more possible. If such a show of unprecedented power from their Lord would not in itself prove to be enough to grant from the dreamer and his loved ones anything, the multiple dangers now only enlarged surely would do the trick, its only possibility of failure being that the dreamer could always, and this was a weakness not even the Dark Lord could penetrate, control the conditions of their dreams- after such a forced entry into their minds, only rare ones would remember they had such power. None would wake up._

_Lucius examined it carefully. Frowning slightly, he looked up._

„_You're right, or so I believe. I was sure it wasn't in there.", he said, without even a noticeable note of enthusiasm as he had advised Snape that, years ago, he had read the same book and was certain it would not help him._

„_I had a hunch.", Snape said, understanding his sentiment, and, though not sympathetic, aware that, if he were in his place, and very easily could have been, he would never forgive such a mistake being gloated upon. They were striving at excellence, both of them, and did not easily admit to any sort of failings on their own part, nor did they tolerate such things in others. It was time for them to prove just all they felt their own talent and intellect had promised-not a test, not school, but the reality that would prove to be their judge. „Still, it's not all we need."_

„_No, no, but it's not a little.", Lucius said, turning his eyes back to his own book, though a little less than fully concentrated. „You know…", he began to speak, quietly and without a trace of his usual boasting that had always been reserved for the Slytherin common room, „I had read all the books in here, all of them, before I even finished Hogwarts. I don't believe I ever…saw just how far their powers stretch, just how perfectly what is written in them can be molded to ones desires."_

_Severus nodded solemnly, for he understood exactly what was said in between his words, what a sentiment it betrayed. They had not been taught that magic was a matter of craftsmanship as were potions, or were taught just the oposite, though indirectly, trough the practice of their Teachers; that it was an offence of the greatest narcissism and misplaced arrogance to even think it could, much less attempt to realize such a train of thought in practice. As if in strict, military measures, their teachings had taught them not to trust themselves- they could conjure new spells, yes, but not ones that would ever surpass the old, or better them. They realized, both of them did, that had the Dark Lord not entered their lives, they might never had realized such an error had been taught to them as fact, and though neither of them had directly said it, both blamed themselves for so ignorant an opinion. Hogwarts was, though popular opinion might and surely would disagree, the school was a place where mediocrities thrived. Those that had near to no talent were miserable, and those that had it in abundance, not far off. It was a place where those ready to quote word for word what the author of the book said excelled; those who longed for more than was said in the book or the class, those were left to themselves. It wasn't that Severus hadn't loved the school, be its faults what it may, but that he felt so horribly lonely there, not for lack of friends, or not only that, but that he felt it was only the walls of the place that understood, only the castle itself that recognized in him the pain that was not settling for anything that you already knew or were sure you could do, but going beyond._

_The place itself seemed to be unaltered by time, unaffected by it on such a grand scale that it appeared the castle had not known time at all, and served as negation to its very existence. As if it stood, soundlessly or nearly so, as if it stood right out of the magic of the four founders, springing from the ground as a product of nature would, a sacred reminder that the magic they had, its entire opulent force, still existed. It was much like this with books-they stood, stacked in libraries and dust covered, awaiting the entrance of one who chose not to stop at the gateway of their world. But, like in books, as in dreams, the same applied to Hogwarts; you could never retell what you've seen, never show to another just what it is you experienced, what your own eyes had witnessed. All trough his seven years, it appeared to him the others were inhabitants of a different place, an uglier place he himself had never quite seen and would never, and flat out refused to, fully comprehend. He had never hoped, and certainly not from the one near him, that such sentiment would be shared. Goes to show you might not always prove to be right and that sometimes, your own judgment, if perhaps not your instinct, can betray you. Lucius had been the first person in his entire life that proved to him his initial both impression and opinion could be entirely out of place, could be fallible at all. Suddenly, he felt visibly exposed, though not unpleasantly so, as he was certain that they had both revealed to each other the exact same thing._

„_The third year was the first time in my entire schooling at Hogwarts when I learned something I didn't already know, that my father hadn't taught me.", Lucius said, obviously having gone trough a similar train of thought, obviously reluctant to relinquish such understanding for the moment. The books could wait a few. He knew as soon as he said it he would be spared the thoughtless reply of something along the lines of „But didn't he think you would be bored when you finally went to school?" or something equally brainless that even most the purebloods had reacted with when seeing how undoubtedly less than awed he was for the entire first two years of all their classes. He knew, also he would not receive a barely masked attack as he had with some of the others, all in the exact same wording, a very happy and very loud „So _that's _why you're so good at school!". He knew, this time, that Severus would know better. _

_He was greeted with a near imperceptible nod of understanding which recognized, instantly, how unbelievably difficult it would be for too young a child to even begin to master their magic, let alone spells of transfigurations at such a tender age._

„_I stole books.", Severus said quietly, „No one would teach me anything. I think I was the youngest thief Diagon Alley ever knew. I had to hide while reading them. It's quite a trying experience, learning to do spells no one wants to explain to you, and having to use your mother's poor excuse for a wand to do it. I'm sure you didn't think so at the time, but you were quite lucky. I had to work hours on end out of class for extracurricular Latin, to see how spells really worked and why the wording was so precise.", he added, knowing it was custom for pureblood children to learn Latin from a very early age, though not to learn spells._

„_I know exactly how lucky I was!", Lucius said, scoffing, raising his voice from the quiet of the library they had become so used to at what he had instinctively interpreted as provocation for being ungrateful. When at seeing Snape's face he was made certain this had not been the case, his voice was quiet again, though not completely calm. He pushed back the instant embarrassment that he had raised his voice in a library, even if it was his own, even if it was empty save the two of them- both had felt the same wave of it when he did so, both thought it was an act of near religious disrespect to do so. For as long as they could remember, Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy felt a sort of sacrificial regard for these places, monuments of books. Both had been granted solitude by them. Both had been understood. Though they were very different in many things, though they never would have dreamed of believing themselves two of a kind in anything, both had the exact same admiration for a place of such a wholly personal nature. Perhaps then, they were not so different. Perhaps, then again, such a notion frightened both deeply in the exact same way._

„_I was never ungrateful at my upbringing.", Lucius said, abandoning such ideas of understanding. „It is the only thing that befits someone like me. „, he said, as if a mantra he had been taught the moment he was born, then added. „It is the only thing befitting a human being."_

_For a second, he thought he had gone too far, and Snape would have some sort of outburst of family affection at him having thoughtlessly insulted his upbringing. Gladly, Snape felt nothing even near family affection, nothing that resembled it in the slightest._

„_I'm inclined to agreed with you on the subject. This", he said, inclining his head as if to nod at their surroundings, „Is exactly what befits a man. Certainly, nothing less should be accepted. Though, it often is."_

„_I didn't think you still begrudged your parents your childhood. It almost appears as if you've forgotten it entirely, most of the time."_

_Many things were said in this, both of them knew. Many things they had both done, when coming to Hogwarts. Very many things. A transgression or two, a mutual, default hate that had unexpectedly brought quite a few things on, made quite a few things happen. Snape being a child of mixed blood, Lucius being one of perfect lineage. Both of them wanting to harm each other. Neither succeeding in more than harming themselves, little by little and all the more, and believing the other as ultimately unscarred. So little spoken, so little to be said at all as they neither knew nor cared to begin to know each other, and so much done. Lucius the older and Severus the younger role of the play, though both of them, both of them, boys of seventeen and thirteen, both of them felt already lost there, already seemingly stripped of their innocence at the moment they drew their first breaths, both of them realizing then they had never had a chance at it to begin with, nor ever would. Many things were said._

„_There's nothing to remember about it."_

_Many would be offended at such a comment. Lucius, on the other hand, knowing what their mutual transgressions of flesh had in fact been, was relieved by it. There truly was nothing to remember of such tortures, moments that had been just that and nothing more, trying not at pleasure, not at love, not even at like, but a punishment they could enact and then be thrilled by such freedom, thrilled by the opportunities to dirty themselves with a person they despised and who returned the favor with equal strength. Thrilled they could forget themselves then, forget what they were in those moments they so blatantly rebelled against it, were separated out of their realities so thoroughly it had barely held the stench of such pathetic desperation and weakness until they made themselves return. Lucius Malfoy, proud heir to such a proud and spotless lineage fucking a boy, fucking a boy of mixed blood to boot, simply to feel, for once, what it was to not be Malfoy-then, in hindsight, seeing it had made him one even more so. Trying, then, perfect for all his life, at doing something that would make Father kill him. Behind closed doors, naturally, for one did not want to see this certain result take place. Trying to see what it would be like, what it would be like to fail. Severus Snape, the poor little mudblood, someone who Lucius would not even publicly see the need to be civil with, touching that pale, perfect, pureblood body simply for seeing it tainted, tarnished by the touch of his hands. All of it, so incidental, starting off so innocently, after years of barely ever having exchanged a few words, for rank did not permit, simply because they had chosen to get back at one of their teachers, different reasons, exactly the same fervor rising within them. Surely, their rank had decided it for them. Both of them, despising every minute, yet so breathlessly hungry for more. Lucius didn't say goodbye when he left school, for how would you say farewell to one you never speak with, one who's first name you've never used? Severus was glad he didn't, it would have made their interaction seem…acceptable, if to no one else then to them when it was anything but. It had taken both years to forget, and certainly, more so to forgive. Not the other, but themselves. The other being a mere causality, one who they perhaps knew even less trough such physical knowledge. Surely, there was nothing to remember. _

_So, they put things again aside and did not reconsider them. Both, they knew, were now better than that, were now beyond such petty self-pity. They had no reason for it. Both, it seemed, both were finally themselves. And even the Dark Lord would perhaps never understand just how grateful they were for it._

„_No, I don't begrudge them my childhood. Nor do I regret it. I simply don't claim to understand the circumstances in which it evolved."_

„_Why?"_

„_Why? I had a muggle father, need I go on?"_

_Lucius flinched at the word, unintentional but still visibly though he tried to hold back the reaction. An eyebrow went up from the raven haired man who stared at him then, as if Lucius had feigned it purely as jest, as insult, as if he was still, after months of serving together as the Death Eaters, as if he was still so conscious of his birth. Lucius, on the other hand, had just then forgotten. It was the reminder that had involuntarily stunned him, but only for a moment._

„_Go on.", he said, and Snape shook his head, suddenly appearing years younger, boyish, his voice undeterred from a maturity it seemed always in possession of._

„_I have no desire to retell tragically Dickenesque tales, especially since they withhold no relevance whatsoever to the present."_

„_I didn't think you did. I simply wondered…"_

„_What?"_

„_Why exactly you're so opposed to mudbloods and muggles when you yourself were raised by one."_

„_Can't you guess?", came a just as quiet, but near bitter reply._

„_Yes, I suppose so. Both poverty and childhood abuse seem reason enough. Still…"_

„_Still, you're looking for more?"_

„_I was. But you are right, it's reason enough and we shan't speak of it.", he shot back, masking the bitterness at being refused a reply, any reply, not particularly this one, and just as he was about to feign concentration on his book again, Severus spoke._

„_Well, it's not enough, you're right there. The poverty, if one forgets the abuse, would be forgivable from any standpoint. The abuse wouldn't, but then, purebloods excuse it as a disciplinary method, and though it wasn't meant as one in this case, it certainly has served to strengthen me. Why then would I concentrate my efforts at making it impossible for such as my very own parents to survive in this society, and killing off any that resemble them? Why would I, besides being insane, besides being bitter, besides resenting it for so long it has made me unable to think straight?", he said, so angry that his voice began to show it a bit, and his face was shaking slightly as he spoke, „Do you honestly believe it to be that simple? Do you honestly think such a thing could derive from the inability to forgive? No, Lucius, it has nothing to do with that at all. You yourself should know, if one can't forgive, either themselves or whoever caused them pain, if one can't rise to the level when such offences signify not a thing, when forgiveness is unnecessary, then one can't rise above it and one deteriorates, and with it, so does their power. What makes me so…", he decided to recognize his own state, „Angry by such a presumption is that it's both banal in nature and assumes me nothing more than a weepy imbecile."_

_For that slight moment of silence, Lucius knew better than to contradict him, though he knew Severus had been wrong on that account. And even, perhaps, he had seen it, known it even when he had begun speaking. Or his anger had not even been directed at Lucius himself. However be it, he held his gaze for that slow moment, and Severus went on speaking, more calmly, but no less passionate, no less proud of what he had to say._

„_What I can't understand, what I can't condone nor forgive in terms that I will let it evolve, is for it to be acceptable still that such weakness raise a child. My father, muggle born and alcohol dependant as he was, worthless and meaningless a man as they could possibly come, was _still_ more powerful than my mother, still had his say while she didn't, and was still allowed to beat either myself or her senseless-and she was a _witch_, Lucius. A witch. That is a weakness I can neither understand, nor would I ever even try to comprehend. She could have repelled him any number of times, or killed him. She could have… Saved herself any number of times, any second of the week. But she didn't. She submitted her magical birth to a life of poverty with a filthy muggle husband and a child she could barely look in the face for all the love that crowded her timid, little heart. And I _am_ bitter, of course I am. Not that she didn't help me, not that she didn't save me from that life or him, but that she didn't save herself. She was a witch, Lucius, can you imagine? I could barely find out what my talents meant from her. I stole a wand that hadn't been used in years. Voldemort said they are soon to be our destruction, the muggles, if we do not act. That they are soon to make us extinct. They don't have that power, we give it to them. If it was a handfuls of skilled wizards against all of them, we could still win. But we refuse to. We praise weakness so highly that that useless, spineless little woman bit down her tongue to be a doleful wife for an imbecile. And, had I not been better than that, had there been someone else in my place, would have raised an equally doleful, spineless little coward of a son, always ready to let someone else take his place. _That _is what is inexcusable. And that is what I refuse to stand for. So, by any means necessary, right? The strong will fight back. The strong will live. Whichever do not…", he waved his hand in dismissing the subject as insignificant._

_Lucius had held his glance the entire time. _

_Finally, he said slowly, „I didn't mean to assume you simply wanted a sort of…grand-scale revenge and whatnot. All I did mean was that…many would feel a slight tickle of guilt."_

_He smiled then._

„_Not you, though. Not you.", he added, the smile on his lips matched by no more than an indecipherable glance from the other's face._

_Severus examined, slowly, out of habit, his smile for insincerity. He found none. Malfoy was sincere, he believed himself a good enough judge to tell. And Malfoy, though he would never admit it, felt more than recognition for such Slytherin cunning as he was now faced with, and from such a younger boy to boot. An unfamiliar feeling crept trough him, causing him to look away, for the first time in his life, ashamed of something in his own appearance, embarrassed at the interest he so openly displayed. Lucius Malfoy felt admiration, a feeling he was not accustomed to associating with anyone but the Dark Lord. _

„Not you, though. Not you."

Certainly not him, never him. Cruelty, the subtle, effortless kind, the way his words would curve themselves as he shot those scolding glances towards people he didn't like, such things made Lucius Malfoy love him, not for their momentary appeal, oh no, not only this, but of what they foreshadowed, what kind of a man they were simply small signs of. The kind of man that had made him, anything but willing to do so, look past the blood and realize, there, sitting next to him in the library, or sending off curses into the night in battle, was a man of monumental strength, a strength he had waited (again, unconscious of the desire) all his life so finally, someone would match his own.

It took a life of being surrounded by sycophants and mindless fans, a life of being recognized everywhere simply because of the name you were given, a life of being trained to excel to make you more than a little jaded, and more than use to learning, developing each of your strengths either alone or under a watchful eye that yearned (Lucius could swear it, still, his father long since gone), yearned to see you fail simply so it could reprimand you for something, anything, finally, being undeserving of him. Such loneliness quickly became his empire, as was the Malfoy fortune, making him, as early as a child, form inside a sound and infallible belief that dependence was a sure sign of weakness, and emotions lead to such a nasty predicament. It was not his father that trained him, though he did not know it. All his life, his parents had expected him to stay somehow irreversibly dependant on them, as he had been as an infant, for him to grow up, built upon nothing but their words, reprimands and, most importantly, the family pride. And it wasn't that the Malfoy name had not built Lucius up into all he was meant to become, all he now was. It was that, somewhere along the line, his unconscious had rebelliously decided he would remodel that name into suiting him, that people would not look up at him in fear because of the money that bread him and the power of his inheritance, but because it was _he _this inheritance and money belonged to, because it was he that served as a model of purity and all of the cunning that a Slytherin was supposed to possess. He would not be simply the Malfoy heir. He would be the true and rightful owner of all people thought he had so effortlessly been granted, all they believed he had won over simply by chance.

Nothing came by chance in his family, and nothing, nothing could be gained without effort. No, things did not go as smoothly, and as a child of six stressing to learn the Wingardium Leviosa or something of the sort, even then, Lucius knew he should be grateful. He made, he _made _everything that he had his own. It was the laziness of though and lack of talent that made people so readily assume otherwise.

„_Lucius Malfoy.", he said, extending his hand to the dark haired boy, four years his junior, now standing, much to his instantaneous and fervent displeasure, so readily at the Dark Lord's right._

„_Severus Snape.", the younger man, barely nineteen, said as his hand met Lucius' own. „We've met before, I do believe you might remember.", he answered, a slight smirk playing upon his lips as he knew that, having been told he would meet one newly initiated, Lucius would have expected the presence of anyone but him, and had just been, less than kindly and with no preceding intro, reprimanded on his initial miscalculation by his very presence._

_Though he despised this very presence from the moment he noticed it, the presence thinking it a slap in his pureblood face that he was not afforded all the solemn pomp and recognition he no doubt expected-the same pomp and recognition naturally extending themselves to not having those of mixed blood share both his mark and the Dark Lord's favor, Lucius curved his lips into a charming, seemingly natural smile one could only know better as to think forced, and replied with a voice that spoke nothing of his disappointment._

„_I feel it just to assume, not in this lifetime."_

_Severus had to return the courtesy and smile back. It amused him that one who had been handed everything on a silver platter from the moment of his birth was so quick on his feet. That Malfoy could mask a wrath that so obviously cut trough the cold air as if a thousand daggers had appeared was truly intriguing, certainly enough to make this moment no less than interesting. The fact that it was directed at him, and for good reason… Made it a party. So, Severus smiled wholeheartedly back, inclining his head to the blond who stood there, sacramental dark robes cloaking him, bewildered, but his poise visibly untouched._

„_Yes, I believe you're right, not in this lifetime, master Malfoy."_

„_Lucius, please."_

„_I'm honored. Lucius."_

_He bit his bottom lip so hard as to draw blood, but did not move his glance away. He would match his eyes, be it the last thing he does._

The only memories they had of each other preceding these years were the indiscretions of their childhood serving only to strengthen this initial lack of amicable attitude for, even in Hogwarts, their hatred and lack of conversation was based on their blood-now, it appeared, the Dark Lord himself was forcing them to ignore it and both felt betrayed by such a demand. From that moment on, they had hated each other or rather, then, were intent on doing so. Certainly, they resented the others very existence, and with a certain passion decided this very sentiment immovable, and warrant of being perfected. Lucius had expected none but his own there and, save Severus, his expectations had been fulfilled to their full extent, fine blood and breeding stained by the intrusion of one…not of their sort. Severus, on the other hand, had not been surprised in the slightest-and therein lay the problem. Both, fighting to become better than themselves, both, forced to stare down their greatest mistake, the very corporeal show of what their weakness had once been. Both, bearing the potential to become the favorites, to become the most praised of Voldemort's children, both, forced to share that place and all but flat out refusing to do so. For months, whenever they were in each other's presence, begrudgingly forced by circumstance to be near one and other at all, they spat insult after insult back and forth, all the while their faces bearing a smile, all their words cloaked in gentle irony both were intelligent enough to interpret in the exact manner it was meant (though not alerting most of the others). Neither wanted to remember themselves back in the day, but were forced to. Both of them, sickened they could not escape, both of them, certain, the other did not deserve to. Truly, there was no reason either could find to even try and be polite. Both were desperate to live as befitted them; both despised the other for reminding them they had not always done so.

Lucius tried to advise against that impure, worthless little child; Severus against the pampered, spoiled pretence of a man- neither succeeding as Lord Voldemort knew, in the end, they would either kill each other or learn to put their own arrogance aside enough for a civil exchange to pass for once between the two. Funnily enough, and it did not go unnoticed by him, this was the first time either made visible their ruthless and entirely selfish ambition; though they loved him, they could not force themselves to accept he loved neither one more. Since this was so, they could not accept his decision, pretend as they might to have done so. He would have been disappointed, truly he would, had he not expected as much. He had only hoped… They would grow out of it. But, as it so openly displayed itself as fact, there appeared to be only one way to finally make out of these boys both men and loyal followers. When, and naturally they didn't think he noticed, nothing in their fervent exchange changed, he realized a duel was in order, though they did not seem to see one being set up.

It wasn't in his latter years that he had become such an impatient man; he decide that, since both of them so thoroughly turned a blind eye to the other's virtues, it was a sad fact that, in time, both would truly not live to follow him. So, rather than watch them bicker for months, years perhaps until one finally broke down and did the other in, he decided to test shortly who the fittest was, and who would be his grand asset after he survived. He did not expect it to take long; both were Slytherins, both talented, both thoroughly sick of each other. So, all during his own teachings, all during whatever he required, he paired them up. Then, he decided to wait. He would rather have one than watch both of them using half their strengths to think of new word play so as to watch the other squirm.

A month had passed, a month of them practicing the Dark Arts, a month of them spending time together in the Malfoy library so as to learn more. A month in which the two became even fitter wizards and, he expected, it would not take much longer. But, as an old enemy with twinkling, piercing blue eyes and half moon spectacles once noted, Lord Voldemort does not understand everything, and surely, he could not have expected this. However, when he saw warning signs that the ever-present bitterness was, against the will of the two, from time to time prone to fading when they did not watch themselves as closely, he wondered. Wondered what it would cause, what kind of man he would be left with. Wondered why it had not occurred to him sooner to put a certain plan in motion. Truly, he was fond of both boys and would honestly be sorry to see either one of them go. But, he decided he needed to know, and was done waiting. Wondering was for those who had time to be idle, and he had better things in mind. It was to be a windswept night that changed everything.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

_The borders of air and ground indiscernible, all that illuminated betwixt the screaming borders of the wind was wand light._

_They could not have picked a night more violent in its own right for their first attack upon the aurors- the wind, the beastly wind, flooded with snow, raged upon them, and the chill… It seemed that all that kept your blood warm was the Avada Kedavra, the blazing of spells trough bodies that could no longer be certain they themselves had not submitted to the mastery of the winter storm, that the mental hold they had on themselves, the belief that they were indeed separate entities from the forest that withheld them was indeed no more than fiction, no more than the inertia of personal faith. _

_There seemed to be another battle altogether unfolding, one of temperament, one that outweighed them, took place outside them, by coincidence exactly at the place they had stumbled upon, months of careful planning on their side only so they could enter a place that seemed, in all honesty, to be unraveling its own war beyond the hold of either their will, existence or purpose. Lucius felt his lips withered and dry as he spoke those words of destruction into a blackness trough which he could hardly distinguish shape at all, barely be sure who his wand was pointed at. It appeared to him his mind had gone, letting pure instinct lead, for that appeared the only way he would be able to survive this. He had no time for calculated judgment, merely movement and force. His eyes had adapted, and the distinction between black robes and their opponents seemed more to speak to him out of the dragon heart stringed wand than his head. His ears were numb to screams of horror, numb even to his own words. The masked figures, all but for the naked faces of the half-blood and the lunatic, and their Lord, moved less like apparitions of black mist now, less like an entity of suffering and more like a mere frightened army. Trough the blizzard of light and snow, he had caught with the edges of his eye that they had already lost four of their peers-he did not know who, nor did he care, but he knew these as being malevolent signs. For the first time in his entire life, he did not look upon death as a coincidence of act and circumstance, no more, certainly no less, but wondered at its meaning, wondered at its prophetic voice. Where were they all? Another crazed fantasy of Tom Riddle's, another frozen fraction of his soul, even starlight gone with the height of the pines, this wilderness of impossible defeat…_

_Even Snape had, for the first time in his entire service to Lord Voldemort, been wholeheartedly opposed to this action, more than advising against it. He himself had, on the other hand, held his mouth shut simply out of spite and arrogance._

„_Afraid?", Lucius asked him mere hours ago, a mischievous smirk upon his lips._

„_To children like yourself death is still a matter of fear.", Severus answered with contempt, turning, feeling, as was expected, the older man's rage swell. Truth be told, the reply was as meaningless as the question, as childish as its tone. Only… Lucius, pushing his rage back, as he was by now more than used to, didn't feel the expected need to reply, didn't hear his own voice spit it out, but realized instantly that their conversation felt…mismatched with the situation itself, somehow, perhaps beyond comprehension. He knew full well the gravity of tonight's mission, knew it bared none of the frivolous nature of their words, and as he let himself finally acknowledge this, Severus looked back up at him, his eyes lingering for moments too long, narrowing on him, moments too long, unneeded. He appeared to have something to say, then decided against it. _

„_What?", Lucius asked, irritably against himself. He could see, could tell how the words had bubbled against the surface, only then to be discarded._

_Severus simply waved his head in simple dismissal, walking out of the room, Lucius would have thought distinctly less composed than he should have been._

_Was he afraid, truly? The thought came about almost instantly in him, only to be locked away somewhere without further pondering. Unnecessary, Lucius thought, these thoughts were unnecessary. Severus Snape afraid, now that seemed to match the coming night in lunacy. It seemed… Unnatural to think it, to assume…No, it was just another night. It would have to be, he thought. They would make it so. To spells of annihilation, here be our measure._

_And yet, it was not another night. It literally…_felt_ as if it was somehow wrongly situated in what he felt was his life. Severus could feel fear's trail on himself, could feel the sting of nervousness he truly was much less than accustomed to, try as he might to ignore it. As he batted away an unexpected Stupefy he knew, instinctively, without worded thought, somewhere words not only lost their usual weight but could not at all be found, without even the notion of an explanation, something was simply…Misplaced. This was not simple fear. This was not his. This…This was not his madness, repelling his entrance with each second, yet making it impossible for him to forget its very presence. It was not a few times he thought, perhaps, Dumbledore…But no, not even he, it was insane to assume…Not even such a wizard could provoke this outburst from the ground, the air, or from him._

_Had they imagined themselves so all-powerful that not even the world could stop them? Yes. And they would be, he thought, making himself near certain he believed it now, invoking the confidence he was usually so well acquainted with, they were. They would have to be. Severus did not speak his curses now, he yelled them, screamed them so as to penetrate the night's surface._

_It was just then, a curse sending his victim to the ground that he saw, as if the seconds themselves were frozen in a mist meant to clarify everything, all his thoughts up to that moment, all these unnatural fears that felt as if they were not his but were forced upon him, a split second, eternal, Lucius Malfoy, the white hair fluttering around his face, the cloud of breath that came from his lips, visible even from this distance, and the wand, the silver snake wand that was pointed right at him, all of it, seemingly in great contrast to the poise of his position, the purposeful lack of movement of Malfoys body when countered with the chaos that surrounded them._

_Suddenly, the chaos disappeared, cutting them away from it. Lucius appeared to him engraved upon the snows very surface, the very image of him removing all notions of fright from Severus. So, this was the end. As simple as that, and nothing to fear. The beautiful Slytherin, shinning amidst the blackness, a slit, a wave of green light coming towards him, nothing but night, nothing but the cold already in his bones, his skin already numb, death already his. Severus had never forgotten this moment, had never even tried to forget the clean thoughtlessness that swept trough him then, the knowledge of their being no distinction then, no difference to separate him and the emerald shine, not a reason at all to distinguish what he felt then was his very essence and death itself. The world…the world was death, or aimed at becoming it. It was not transformation then that had happened, or he had believed would, not an end, not truly, but a sort of…Unity, that to all who had not come so desperately close to it would have appeared horrendous, but he knew to be pure. No fear, none, and it was not only for their being no escape, not only for its inevitability, but for the expectation, the emerald light merging with his need, with his very soul, had he still at that moment believed it was human to have one. Now, had the green light not missed him, and Severus not realized he was both unscathed and alive, this new found truth would never have been expressed, the very recognition of the yearning for abyss never fully known, his very base- never even grazed upon. But, Severus Snape was alive, and with a feeling he had never yet encountered, a sudden crash of sorts that revealed itself by accelerated heartbeat and the sudden return of feeling as such into his flesh, he was alerted to the fact that the curse had missed him, not by accident, but the same deliberate purpose Lucius had shone with, only to hit an auror so close to himself that Severus could feel the sudden shift in the air as the man fell, wand still pointing straight at…He was alive, Severus felt himself think. He was alive._

_He had barely had the moment needed to compose himself before having to repel another attack, this time coming from an opponent he had seen. The same sense of impenetrable power now returned to him, though for different reason, he could not suppress his own bewilderment at what had happened. Why? They were themselves again, though perhaps not both of them, and this questions seemed to leave an imprint on whatever he did latter on. He had barely had time to see the man in battle afterwards, but Severus knew without even the notion of a doubt that he was alive and that, as promised, as prophesized by the bolt that had missed him, they had won._

_In silence, six of them dead and already forgotten, the remaining followers of Lord Voldemort witnessed in triumph the calm and certain promise of the morning, the flowers, flowers of blood that had appeared on the snow as if to cleanse it somehow, Nature's tryst to obliterate all it had once created. He searched for him, grey eyes to match him, the question, the answer, all of it, visible upon him, he searched to be told…Had he imagined? He needed to be certain not. The silence felt to him strangely unbecoming, though the moment exceeded words of surprise (though none would admit it had been just that) or of pride, for the sacred nature of the event itself would be sullied by both, and still…Even Lord Voldemort, appearing at last to praise them, was silent. The followers had proven themselves more than simply worthy, they had proven their might and now, the wizarding world would no longer be able to deny their own fear, or the approach of their capitulation. Now, more than ever before, all of them knew it was no more than a matter of time, no more than the counting of days that separated them with the greatest myth the world had yet to encounter. The reign of the Dark Lord, here, undeniable, golden, godlike. The night felt but a dream and they felt, they could dream no more…They knelt, knelt in the flowers, knelt in the cold, knelt to witness the dawn. _

_They would never forget this night, they said to themselves, never. And yet, all of them did, unable to bear its transition, its glory, all of them but two, two that would be forced to carry it inside for the remainder of their days. It was only latter, only when he had returned yet again, that the rest had tried again to picture it, tried to dare themselves to believe such fearlessness, such certainty was anything but naive, tried to open themselves to the possibility of a second betrayal. The followers were weakened by time, and not by their own choice, but by time itself. And yet, on the appearance of this very daybreak, none believed they could be, ever again. Hope had gone, for it was unneeded, beneath them. Fear, fear was fiction. _

_The silence stretched, the silence stretched as they all stared, stared to witness themselves, as if for the first time and perhaps it was just that, the first time, the instance of time as such irrelevant, proven by them as unimportant, stretched until Lord Voldemort laughed, a sound more musical and befitting than they could have imagined, laughed and said simply, quietly;_

„_My friends, history…", he said, and a wave of a hand bearing one ring alone was there to match it._

_All of them rose, Voldemort with his wand pointed at the sky._

„_Morsmordre__!"_

_And grey eyes met black. _

_&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&_

TBC………


End file.
